


Disgraceland

by thearkwrites



Category: Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Humanformers, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mech Preg, Purple Prose With Purpose, Size Difference, Spanking, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 21,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thearkwrites/pseuds/thearkwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where my more off-the-reservation writings go to fester. In the newest chapters, Shattered Glass!Grimlock shows Bumblebee how much he cares, while Shattered Glass!Fracture arrives on Earth where Drift greets him.</p><p>[A/N: Open for requests. Just shoot me a message on Tumblr or leave a comment here.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back Alley Business: Chop Shop/Thunderhoof

**Author's Note:**

> Something written entirely on a whim. I subscribe to the idea of Chop Shop being a huge nerd and a boxer, so I didn't hesitate to incorporate it into this fic.

If his advanced mathematics professor is to be believed there were, at this exact and precise moment, fifteen couples in Kaon simultaneously overloading.

By his personal estimation, that figure is off by one. The fifteenth had yet to come.

Quite literally.

To him, it's hilarious. Raunchy number crunching has always been hilarious. Amalgamating the immaculacy of mathematical units with the obscenity of coitus has always been entertaining. Numbers are pure, interface is anything but, and Chop Shop finds great joy in both. In theory and in practice.

He snickers.

"The frag youse gigglin' about, kid?"

He stops.

He remembers who he's with.

He focuses all four of his eyes on the other's back.

He frowns.

To the mech underneath, it would be nothing more than a pointless statistic with no bearing on reality. He would, by Chop Shop's estimation, blithely dismiss it as the idiotic preoccupations of an academic twit. He would, to Chop Shop's knowledge, use it as an excuse to denigrate him about his choice of aerospace engineering and mechanics as his major; and possibly take a jab at his minoring in mathematics as well. He would, in Chop Shop's experience, turn it into a running joke to be used against him with absolute impunity.

Not today.

"Thinkin' about some saucy little totties we shagged last week." Chop Shop says with a hint of falsified amusement. "One of them had a fuel intake like a—"

"Spare me." The helm—with its _bizarre_ jutting accoutrements—cocks to the side in time with the disparaging snort. "Youse ain't here for them, you're here for me."

"Kinda hard to tell the difference with your optics shut, boyo."

The beginnings of a mirthful laugh are botched up by the an incredible, _impossible_ tightness clamping down on his spike. It hitches in his throat and, instead, comes out as a dying groan crossed with an orgasmic squeak. It's an embarrassing sound and Chop Shop wants to feel embarrassed.

Thunderhoof doesn't let him. Thunderhoof doesn't even allow him a moment to think. Thunderhoof is in one of his moods tonight and he wants to make Chop Shop join him for the ride.

A massive aft slams hard against Chop Shop's pelvic armor. Sparks flare up on contact. Tiny pulses of pleasure ripple through his frame and his systems. Knee joints, already sore and tired, nearly buckle under his weight.

Heat. Intensity. Wetness. Tightness. All encompasing. All consuming. All concentrated on his spike.

Overload was close and he chased after it. Thrusting and pounding, ramming and pushing, he chased after that sweet elusive release with all his remaining strength. Across his vision crackle bolts of white light. Around his and the other's joint forms roar their searing EM fields. A final jerk of the hip and finally, _finally_ , he catches his overload and pours it, hot and stick-sweet, into the other.

 _Fifteen_.

Through post-overload bliss, Chop Shop maintains his wits enough to collapse away and not on top of Thunderhoof. He pulls out of the other mech with a loud, wet pop and rolls onto his back. He pants short and haggard breaths, the experience having taken a bit too much out of him. Still, he feels complete and satisfied.

“That was—”

“—it?”

Before he can get a word in, Chop Shop finds himself being pushed further away. Thunderhoof doesn't bother dignifying the gesture with a glance, not even as he picks himself up and walks over to the bar of their room.

Odd. The evidence of their illict tryst is all there. Coolant droplets gathered on protoform and armor. Silvery transfluid flowing down his legs. Fans whirring, low and steady. The heady aroma of their coupling. Yet Thunderhoof doesn't seem at all complete nor satisfied.

 _Fourteen-point-five_.

Chop Shop scowls. “Give us a break, boyo. We're still getting used to this.”

“Ain't youse supposed to be a fast learner, genius?” 

Chop Shop bites down on his glossa. To indulge in his desire to snark would be to tempt fate, that harsh and fickle mistress. It was fate that made him a very bright, very ambitious, very poor student. It was fate that compelled him to turn to underground bare-knuckle-joint boxing for credits. It was fate that pushed him out of the ring and into Thunderhoof's—appallingly, obscenely wealthy—lap. It would be none other than fate that could take it all away in an instant.

“We're still getting paid, right?” he says instead of the countless insults running amuck in his processor.

“For _that_ depressin' performance?” Thunderhoof scoffs as he fixes himself a drink. “Half is all you're gettin', kid. Ain't you lucky?”

“ _Half_? Bu—but it's almost time for us to pay our bloody tuition fees!” Chop Shop angrily sputters.

“And that's my problem how?”

“That ain't fair!”

Thunderhoof turns around to look at Chop Shop with pitying optics. “My spark aches for you, kid. Really. To your hopes and your dreams.” the mafioso dramatically raises his cube and downs its contents in one go. “If you ain't happy, youse can go back to sluggin' with other lowlives for scrap, and I pay to frag some _real_ mechs. How's that, huh?”

His vocalizer utters a disgusted noise. Absolutely not. Skilled as he was at pugilism, Chop Shop constantly worried about the damage it would do to his servos. Decent pay, destructive after effects.

Not again. Never again.

Chop Shop goes through his available options at rapid-fire speed. What would it take to convince a horny mafioso to keep you as his private call mech? How to keep him as your own, personal sugar sire in these trying times? What could the solution to this unique conundrum be? He finds one. Shockingly, it wasn't mathematical. It was time to lay thick the charm.

“Alright, alright, howsabout this sweet deal, boyo?” Chop Shop says as he stands up and moves towards Thunderhoof, optics bright and inviting. “You pay us in full now and, not only will we give you the best frag of your life, We'll even teach you how to make a space bridge.”

Thunderhoof rolls his optics while waving a servo dismissively. “And when the frag will I ever need that kind of information?” he asks, laughing.

Chop Shop presses on. If the other can sense his much-too-palpable desperation, all the better. Perhaps he could also appeal to Thunderhoof's charitable spirit. If it exists, which Chop Shop hopes it does. “We got a deal?”

“Hmm.” Thunderhoof pours himself another shot of energon. “I'll think about it.”

 _Fifteen_.


	2. Kansas or Bust: Knock Out/Bumblebee

Sideswipe had decided. Kansas was the root of all evil. Both the Earthen region and the musical group. Had they not existed this wouldn't be happening. Or, to be specific, _happened_.

"Sideswipe, I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

Vocalization: low, guilt ridden, with a mournful edge; it was obviously Bumblebee speaking.

"Maybe you should knock next time, kiddo."

Vocalization: loud, irate, with a hint of bemusement; it was obviously Sideswipe's very own sire.

"Maybe you should lock the door next time!"

Vocalization: high-pitched, delirious, barely restrained grief underscoring the screeching; the din of creaking metal inexplicably present; Sideswipe was fairly certain he had just heard himself speaking while simultaneously and repeatedly banging his helm against a wall of welded debris. With his optics shuttered tight and his processor going haywire it was difficult to tell. The only thing he was certain of was that he had stumbled upon a scene that would forever be burned into his memory banks.

Red on yellow.

His sire pushed up against his team leader.

Lip plates locked.

Digits interlaced.

Crotch plates ground against the other's.

Interface panels ready to spring open.

All to the tune of a cloying Earth ballad wailing on stereo—a cloying Earth ballad he was familiar with because of his sire and team leader's similar musical tastes. A coincidence he didn't think much of until now.

“Maybe you should think twice about bursting into other bot's rooms uninvited.”

Vocalization: self-righteous, even sounding, with a subtle I-told-you-so-tone; it was obviously Sideswipe's sire putting on a front of parental authority.

“I could say the same for you, you fragging hypocrite!” Sideswipe snarled, whipping around to point an accusatory digit at his sire. “Nobody asked you to come to Earth! Me especially!”

“I was just concerned—”

“About him or me?” Sideswipe asked.

“Both.” The older mech appeared thoughtful for a moment before speaking again. “But special mention goes to you, Swipey.”

Sideswipe flinched in disgust. “Don't call me that! Bad sires have their nickname rights revoked!”

Knock Out frowned then turned to Bumblebee, seated beside the red mech on a makeshift berth. “I'm sorry, 'Bee. He definitely inherited his flair for the overly dramatic from his mother.”

“ 'Carrier'! The correct term is 'carrier'! Only humans uses the term 'mother'!” Sideswipe buried his faceplate in his servos in an attempt to soothe his erratic processor and smoking circuitry. “You two hiding your attempts at fragging with corny Earth music is bad enough, can you at least _not_ use Earth slang while you're at it? _Please_?” he hissed as he, through splayed digits, shot Bumblebee and Knock Out a heated glare each.

“ 'Attempts'?” Knock Out scoffed, sounding insulted. “Do your old man some justice, Sideswipe. I didn't just make you, I made your brothers too. All five of them. With three different mechs, no less. You and your brothers didn't just drop in my lap, after all.” he noted smugly.

“At least they were—weren't...” Sideswipe glanced at Bumblebee (himself observing the goings-on with a disturbing look of absolute serenity) and felt his throat cables run dry.

“Bumblebee?” Knock Out purred the name like he was savoring its on his glossa.

A shudder ran through his spinal strut. “Do you have to say it like _that_?” Sideswipe groaned, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Can you blame me, kiddo? This fine piece of aft and his adoration of exquisite Earth music just does things to me.” Knock Out said and pulled Bumblebee's frame closer to his. “ 'All I Wanted' has sounded better ever since.”

Bumblebee, stoic up until this point, let slip a goofy smile when Knock Out gave him a peck on the cheek. “Sorry about this, Sideswipe.” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry.

“Eh, Swipey's a tough kid, he'll get over this. Or should I say 'used' to this?”

Yes.

Kansas was definitely the root of all evil. Both the Earthen region and the musical group.

Was it too late to destroy both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GrimBee is endgame for me, but I find a great thrill in experimenting with other, less conventional pairings. Knock Out being Sideswipe's dad is a headcanon I embrace; Bumblebee being Sideswipe's figurative and soon-to-be-factual mother is an idea I love playing with. I may or may not write something more explicit in the future, something more pointless and less reserved. I did, after all, consider having Knock Out invite Sideswipe into the fray and have a go at Bumblebee. Perhaps next time?


	3. An Officer and a Gentleman: Drift/Strongarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something ridiculous written for shits and giggles. No plot, no point, just Strongarm giving her romantic side a chance. You have been warned.

****

An Officer and a Gentleman

69 

Midnight Velvet

* * *

_  
“I love you, Strongarm.”_

_Those four sweet words fell gently upon her audio receptors. Carried by the smooth richness of his voice, the surprising gentleness of his tone, those four words echoed ceaselessly within her processor in an uplifting cadence. Inside its bronze-tinted chamber, Strongarm's very spark throbbed and sang its adulation to the infinite vastness of the heavens, a brilliant conflagration of ceruleans and ivories undulating violently within its gilded alcove_

_From between supple lip plates emerged a withering sigh, a sound that elicited a crooked, wolfish smile from the object of her affections. As if moved by her display of discomposed euphoria, Drift allowed himself to speak once again._

_“I always have.”_

_The mech tenderly placed a jet-black servo upon Strongarm's pallid cheek; the battle-hardened, time-razed surfaces of his digits harshly contrasted the softness of her youthful faceplate. Yet Strongarm didn't mind it in the slightest; she had always liked them older, much older. Experience had taught her that mechs aged like the finest of high-grade energon were vastly superior to their younger counterparts. It was a belief she had long since held and it became an absolute truth in Drift._

_Strongarm uttered a gasp of astonishment when she felt the other Cybertronian's other servo fondle her interface panel with a sense of urgency and impatience. Thick digit tips, imposing and demanding, prodded the seams and pawed at the clasps that protected the sanctity of Strongarm's modesty._

_“Drift, wait!” She cried out to him in a heady warble. “What if the others happen upon us?” Her voice quavered with her frame. The tremors that coursed through her body were brought about by a deadly mixture of unbridled passion and deep shame; a fact that Drift revelled in with great bemusement._

_“Highly doubtful.” He responded as a highly delighted chortle bubbled forth from within his open intake. “We are in a forest in the latter hours of the day, a fair distance from prying optics. Whilst my Minicons are currently indisposed, your leader and his lover are off accomplishing their unfinished tasks of the day. As for the crimson-colored canker sore, he is much too preoccupied with his own foolish vanities to notice world spinning about him.”_

_As if on cue, Drift's vertical protoform pistol sprung forth from within its confines, a metallic-sounding hiss accompanying its release. Strongarm could do nothing but marvel at it in open-mouthed wonder. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. Like the mech it belonged it to, its was impressive a sight to behold; robust in girth and dominating in length, its surface a smooth vastness of silver pockmarked by the occasional fleck of persimmon. On the wide-headed tip was a translucent little pearl of pre cum, glinting beneath the waning light of the moon hanging overhead._

_"Do you see this, Strongarm?" Drift whispered huskily, the heat of need radiating from him like the heat of the sun. Strongarm whimpered with a need that she dared not acknowledge in his presence. "It craves for you, for your midnight velvet, for your_

* * *

“Strongarm?”

All it took was a few nanoseconds. In the blink of an optic, Strongarm stored her datapad in her subspace and stood up to face the source of the voice. Still reeling from shock, her spark continued thundering at a rapid pace. Her expression, however, was that of utter calm.

“Yes, Drift?”

Her voice was just as even. And given who was standing before her, she was grateful.

“Are you busy with anything right now?” Drift asked.

"Well..."

Strongarm briefly considered her options.

Would she go for the whole truth or would she tell an outright lie? Would she, finally, confess to Drift that her feelings towards him were not quite platonic and almost certainly romantic? Would she play it cool and continue to pretend that she admired him from a strictly professional standpoint? Would she admit to him that she was in the process of penning an epic love story (inspired by her guilty pleasure, _As The Allspark Burns_ , no less) starring her and Drift?

The answer was obvious.

“...not really,” She unconsciously drummed her digits against her subspace. “Why do you ask?”

Drift's faceplate lit up and Strongarm felt her spark flutter. “Perfect. Fixit has just discovered an energon deposit a short distance from Crown City, in an uninhabited coastal meadow. The lieutenant has requested that I take a look at it and that I bring another along with me.”

“What about Jetstorm and Slipstream?”

“My pupils are currently testing their skills against Sideswipe and Windblade in a series of mock battles. Bumblebee and Grimlock are busy with other pressing matters. Thusly, this leaves you as my last option.” Drift explained.

Strongarm nodded in understanding. “Hmm, well, my patrol won't start for a few more Earth hours...so how far away is the energon deposit?”

“About an hour's drive from the junkyard. Fixit volunteered to send me there himself, but I believe that a long drive would do my spark a bit of good. I have the coordinates, now all I need is a companion.” Drift ended his statement by gesturing to the junkyard gates. “Shall we, officer?” He said, playfulness evident in his tone.

Strongarm took note of it and, in the privacy of her processor, smiled. “Such a gentleman.”


	4. Wild Cherry: Thunderhoof/Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thunderhoof owns a nightclub and Sideswipe is a dancer. The beginnings of a silly, "sexy", self-indulgent AU written purely for shits-n-giggles.
> 
>  _Caveat emptor_.

"Knock, knock. Who's your daddy? Dig it, baby."

In one sweep of his servo, Thunderhoof pushed all of Sideswipe's accoutrements off the dressing table and onto the floor. The exterior detailing tools scattered and spilled everywhere before Sideswipe could react. When he realized what Thunderhoof had just done, the mob boss had already laid down an assortment of gifts in front of him. An assortment of very rare, very expensive gifts that made Sideswipe forget about the spilled polish and dirty towels.

“For my favorite dancer.”

Thunderhoof moved aside to allow Sideswipe to focus entirely on the presents. A bouquet of bright purple Akalouthan orchids, arranged in an ornate display that best showed off the delicate and brilliantly tinted petals. A set of electrum-gilded, gemstone-encrusted rings contained in an equally opulent trinket box. A complete buffering kit from one the oldest and most luxurious boutiques on Cybertron. Sideswipe's gaze lingered on each one, but what truly caught his optics was an innocuous little parcel wrapped in glittering finery. Skilled as the gift wrapper was they couldn't hide the distinct dildo shape.

“Well, what do youse think?”

Sideswipe jumped a little when he felt Thunderhoof's servos on his shoulders. His frame tensed at the touch. Heavy digits ghosted over his spinal strut before settling on idling over his aft.

“Well?” Thunderhoof asked, insistent.

“Are you really that desperate to get into my undercarriage, 'Hoof?” Sideswipe grinned and savored the last word. No one else in the club was allowed to call Thunderhoof that; not the other dancers nor the bouncers nor those working behind the bars. It was but one of many privileges of being the mob boss' favorite.

Instead of receiving a direct answer, Sideswipe was lifted up from his chair and thrown onto the couch in the far corner. He landed on his front with a sharp intake of breathe. For a moment all Sideswipe saw was static. Disoriented, he barely noticed Thunderhoof straddling his chassis. Only when Thunderhoof's knee edged his thighs apart did Sideswipe's cerebral processor finally re-stabilize itself.

His processor immediately informed him of three things. One: Thunderhoof had a servo weighing down on his helm, firmly pressing his faceplate deep into the couch cushioning. Two: Thunderhoof's other servo was greedily palming the curve of his aft, digits squeezing the pliable protoform with force. Three: With his helm pinned against the couch and his aft in the air, Thunderhoof had easy access to the unpopped seals of his valve and afthole.

_Oh, rust._

Sideswipe struggled against the other's grip. Or at least he tried to.

Four: Thunderhoof didn't just _look_ strong; he _was_ strong.

“What do youse think, kid? I get you your own private dressin' room in my most popular club. I get you the best presents from the best shops in the fraggin' galaxy. I got a spike as hard as cybertronium just by lookin' at your aft. _What do youse think, kid_?” Thunderhoof hissed into the younger mech's audials.

“I think you're getting too desperate, 'Hoof.” Sideswipe said bluntly. “You want to get your rocks off? Filch and Blackarachnia are next door.”

“No. Only you.” Thunderhoof tightened his hold on Sideswipe's aft.

 _Primus, he's desperate_.

“Look, 'Hoof, I gotta be onstage in a few, can't this wait until later?” Sideswipe said laughing softly.  
,  
Big mistake.

Sideswipe's laughter quickly morphed into a pained yelp when Thunderhoof slapped his aft hard. All his processors froze. Stinging pain jagged up his lines and overwhelmed his sensornet. Lithe frame shook and his tanks lurched, still reeling from the sudden blow to his aft. The snarl rising in Sideswipe's throat became another yelp as Thunderhoof smacked his other cheek.

“Watch it, Sideswipe.”

The heavy weight on his helm eased off. Sideswipe's relief was replaced with dread as the dulling pain flared anew. Not content to using just one servo, the mob boss opted for both in his punishment of Sideswipe; one for each cheek. Thunderhoof was relentless in his assault, delivering sharp smack after sharp smack in a steady rhythm. Each blow, accompanied by a resounding crack, echoed and filled the room, drowning out the younger mech's moans. Sideswipe's wordless pleas had no effect on Thunderhoof and only seemed to spur him on.

Hot, white pain erupted across blue optics. The power that once held his frame down was now being used on his aft. Tender and soft, it shook with every slap. Imprints of alternating size marked black protoform, decorating its expanse and making it shine.

“I like you, kid.” Thunderhoof began.

 _Smack_.

“I like you a lot.” 

_Smack._ _Smack._.

“But if you ever give me lip again...”

 _Smack._ _Smack._. _Smack._.

“...then we are going to have a problem here.”

Thunderhoof raised his servos, poised for a slap on both cheeks. The sound of knuckles rapping on the door stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Sideswipe? You're on, kid.”

“Got it, Razorpaw.” Sideswipe called out to the mech outside. He looked over his shoulder and met Thunderhoof's gaze. “Hey, 'Hoof, you mind?” he muttered through laboured breathing.

The elk-con frowned but did as Sideswipe requested. He reluctantly lifted his massive frame off of Sideswipe and seated himself.

The younger mech was on his pedes in a nanoclick. His venting, once loud and erratic, stilled completely. Trembling servos glided over the sore aft in gentle, kneading motions. Then, very suddenly, Sideswipe gave Thunderhoof a wry smirk, even as his optics gleamed bright with tears. “You're putting an ice pack on this later.” 

“I—” Thunderhoof looked thoughtful for a moment. “—okay. Youse got it, kid.” He said slowly, guiltily. 

“Thanks.”

Before Thunderhoof had the chance to speak, Sideswipe crossed the distance to his dressing room door and walked through it.

* * *

Sideswipe turned a corner in the hallway before falling to his knees. 

“ _Solus Prime that was amazing_.” his voice shook with excitement; his faceplate flushed with arousal.

Sideswipe drew his thighs together in a—fruitless, pointless—attempt to quell the blistering, unbearable heat between them. Spike and valve both throbbed against their protective plating. Both felt warm and wet and in desperate need of immediate attention. Both grew hotter, wetter as Sideswipe remembered what had transpired just moments ago.

Thunderhoof's powerful servos. Raining smacks on his aft. The mech asserting his dominance.

Whimpering, Sideswipe cupped his interface array and pressed on it...

“Sideswipe!” Razorpaw sounded annoyed even from a distance. “You're on!”

“Coming! Coming!”


	5. Wild Cherry Pop: Thunderhoof/Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **AKA: Wild Cherry II: 'Hoof and 'Swipe Do the Do**  
> 
> 
> Even more Thunderhoof/Sideswipe nonsense. A bit of good ol' canoodling set after “Wild Cherry” the first. Had way too much writing this and if it shows, I apologize for nothing.

"Stand back, 'Hoof." Sideswipe told him. An order, not a request. "Or you're not getting any of this." He drew his black thighs closer together, emphasizing his point. From between the smooth curves peeked out a luminescent blue sliver, a thin azure crescent gleaming with faint traces of lubricant.

The sight made Thunderhoof's tanks contract and his interface array heat up to near-excruciating torridity. He grunted as he lumbered forward and reached out for Sideswipe. Sideswipe, lying on the massive berth in Thunderhoof's equally cavernous, ostentatious private quarters. Sideswipe, without his valve's protective interface panelling and wearing only an alluring come-hither, come-frag-me look. Sideswipe, now frowning slightly as Thunderhoof continued his shambling gait towards the young Autobot.

"Ah, ah, ah." The red mech reached down to cup his mound. "What'd I just say, 'Hoof?"

So close to Sideswipe, Thunderhoof had no choice but to stop dead in his tracks. Hungry servos once stretched out before him in longing now balled into fists. Engines roared in anger, over being denied what he had been yearning for so long.

"You little slagger." Thunderhoof snarled. His vocals faltered as his temper began to get the better of him. His bright-red optics blazed and met Sideswipe's aloof gaze. The impassive look Sideswipe was giving him only made his energon boil even more. "You mother-fragging, rusty, son of a scrap heap." Thunderhoof said under his breath.

"Temper, temper, 'Hoof. Don't tell me you've already forgotten your promise to me?"

Thunderhoof didn't forget. Sideswipe made sure of it. To a teary optic'd Sideswipe, a deeply apologetic Thunderhoof promised to give him anything his spark desired. After (“unjustly” and “undeservedly”, as the younger mech noted through broken sobs) taking out his frustrations on Sideswipe, it seemed like the only thing Thunderhoof could do to make it up to him. Sideswipe was more than willing to accept the generous offer, as Thunderhoof correctly predicted. What he hadn't foreseen was Sideswipe taking full advantage of it with the shame—or lack thereof—of Kaon's most popular whores.

He was expecting Sideswipe to request for something material, as befitting a mech of his youth. A newer, sleeker armor set crafted specially for him. A condominium in the most upscale district in Central City. Instead, Sideswipe coyly asked for the opportunity to allow Thunderhoof to finally pop his seal....

...With Sideswipe himself in charge of the entire affair. No complaints from Thunderhoof allowed.

Even now the mobster was unsure how to feel about such an unorthodox arrangement, yet he endured it as best as he could; or as much as his pride would allow.

“I—I didn't forget.” Thunderhoof's conciliatory tone sounded absolutely foreign to his own audials.

“Uh-huh. You know, 'Hoof, we could just call this whole deal off. You obviously aren't the kind of bot who takes their promises seriously so—”

“Kid. Please.” The word tasted so bitter on his glossa. Thunderhoof had never used it before; had never needed to until now. “Please.” 

Sideswipe appeared taken aback by Thunderhoof's words. For the moment at least. It didn't take long for that look of gentle surprise to twist into a more malicious expression. “Oh, _'Hoof_.” Sideswipe said, a self-satisfied smirk clear on his faceplate.

With a fluid grace normally reserved for the stage, Sideswipe parted his thighs and spread his valve's outer lips ever so slightly. The act drew a choked gasp from the older mech and prompted Sideswipe to give Thunderhoof a better view of his valve. Against jet black the blue-tinted, lubricant-stained folds stood out and drew Thunderhoof's gaze directly towards them. Red optics looked past the outer lips, away from the swollen anterior node and beyond the darker blue valve walls to stare longingly at the unbroken seal nestled tightly between all the node clusters, mesh and lining. It was small like Sideswipe. Or smaller than Thunderhoof's oft-used own. For certain, it was built in proportion to the rest of Sideswipe. But—Thunderhoof found himself wondering—was it as flexible as Sideswipe himself was?

It was tiny. It was neat. It was unsullied. It was perfect. But could it fit Thunderhoof without breaking apart?

If the older mech played all his cards right he would find out soon enough.

“You like what you see?” Sideswipe suddenly asked him.

The mobster bobbed his helm up and down, anxiously chewing on his lower lip plate. “ _Slag yeah_.”

“ _Then go for it_.”

Thunderhoof uttered a quick prayer of thanks in the privacy of his cerebral processor before diving in.

Sideswipe yelped as Thunderhoof's antlers—that's what the mobster called them—bumped against and pried his legs even further apart. Powerful servos only held them firmer in place. A grimace crossed Sideswipe's features at the pressure boring down on his soft inner thighs. He was about to tell Thunderhoof off for being too rough when he suddenly felt two of the other's digits slide inside of him. Much larger and more demanding than his own, Sideswipe's facade of impishness cracked as Thunderhoof began to finger his valve with gusto.

Too much gusto, in fact.

“Ah, 'Ho—'Hoof!”

It was Thunderhoof's turn to smile. For all the bluster that Sideswipe put on, he was still just a sparkling compared to the mobster. A couple of digits in the unresisting valve were enough to turn Sideswipe into this shaking, whimpering mess. Thunderhoof adding in one more digit and lifting Sideswipe's hips up with them only made the younger mech lose even more of his self-control. The red chassis rocked with each thrust of Thunderhoof's servo. The tiny valve, dripping with lubricant, grew wetter and hotter with each passing nanoclick. In the other's grip, Sideswipe was practically mewling, the strings of words coming out of his intake seemingly praising and damning Thunderhoof in equal measure. The elk-con took it as a challenge. 

Another large, blunt digit drove into the moistened entrance, the four combined spread and stretched Sideswipe's valve walls to their utter limits. The anterior node, once ignored, was now lavished with attention from Thunderhoof's glossa and lip plates. He alternated between suckling and flicking the sensitive little bud all while moving his digits in hard and fast. Sticky sweet lubricant coated his servo and faceplate, encouraging Thunderhoof to double his efforts on the shaking mech before him.

Sideswipe's frame jumped. “Thunderhoof!”

Barely decipherable grunts erupted into high-pitched sceeching. Thunderhoof paid the din no mind. He was too busy marvelling at how the slick little channel accommodated him with relative ease. It _was_ as flexible as Sideswipe. Even with the intact seal restricting his progress, Sideswipe's valve appeared to fit Thunderhoof perfectly. Did Sideswipe self service that often? Or was he just built to take in mechs bigger than himself? A feverish sense of delight tickled Thunderhoof's spark at the possibilities.

“ 'Hoof. Wait. Stop.” 

Thunderhoof hesitated slightly but still obeyed without question or complaint and withdrew his digits. The scrunched, ashen faceplate betrayed his true emotions but the elk-con didn't voice them. With how close he was to getting into Sideswipe's virgin chassis he didn't dare say or do anything that would kill the moment.

“So close. Want you. In me. Now.” Sideswipe cycled in halting breaths.

“Yous sure about that, kid?” Thunderhoof asked while licking his servo clean. “Your seal's still kinda unpopped, y'know.”

“Don't care.”

Thunderhoof raised an optic ridge. “It's gonna hurt.”

Sideswipe peered down at him with bright optics. “Don't care.”

“There's gonna—”

“ _Don't. Care._ Frag me.”

Once again, Thunderhoof did as Sideswipe asked. He rose from his place on the floor and undid the clasps of his interface panelling, his spike finally springing free. Long, thick and ridged, it extended fully hard and topped by gleaming droplets of pre-cum. Thunderhoof moved between Sideswipe's thighs and took one deep breath before sliding himself inside the other. It was a tight fit only slightly smoothened by the copious amounts of transfluids. Sideswipe's valve was small but stretched _wonderfully_ around the too-big spike, its inner walls and mesh lining quickly acclimating to the intrusion. 

Thunderhoof himself was surprisingly gentle in his approach, whether it was out of concern for Sideswipe or because he was relishing the warmth and wetness surrounding his spike was known only to the mobster. Whatever the reason, Sideswipe didn't care. Quickly growing impatient, Sideswipe, without warning, put his hips at an angle that allowed him to slam his interface array against Thunderhoof's pelvic plating.

Both frames tensed as Thunderhoof was now fully sheathed inside of Sideswipe. Thunderhoof's wide spike head broke the seal with ease, and Sideswipe overloaded because of it. The pain of having his seal popped combined with the intensity of his overload overwhelmed the younger mech and brought him to tears. To Thunderhoof, it was quite the picture. Sideswipe moaning, trembling and softly crying underneath the larger mech, while his valve oozed transfluid and energon onto the once-pristine berth sheets. The sheer vulnerability, the _helplessness_ of the other moved Thunderhoof to do the unthinkable.

With one servo lifting the red helm and the other servo cupping a pale cheek, Thunderhoof bent down to kiss Sideswipe. The act surprised them both, yet neither of them withdrew from the kiss. Thunderhoof only broke away from it to tell Sideswipe in a low voice “It's gonna be okay, kid.”

The younger mech nodded in understanding. 

“Move.” Sideswipe whispered suddenly and breathlessly.

And Thunderhoof did. Now armed with the knowledge of how Sideswipe wanted it, he moved his hips back and fully penetrated the valve in one thrust. He savored the soft whimpers of the other before drawing his spike out and ramming it in, again and again and again. Sideswipe's much smaller frame jolted from the impact, forcing Thunderhoof to pin the other's hips in place so he wouldn't be knocked off the berth. This time around, Sideswipe didn't mind the older mech holding him down with those powerful servos. He was too lost in pleasure to care.

The steady, punishing pace Thunderhoof assumed made Sideswipe overload again and the mobster smirk with pride. Barely a breem had passed and already the little red mech had been flung into two devastating overloads. With Thunderhoof's spike hitting the deepest nodes and mercilessly battering the stretched-out valve, it was inevitable. In his ruminations, Thunderhoof almost missed the third overload tearing through Sideswipe's chassis. The valve walls tensing and clamping down on his spike snapped the elk-con to attention. He grunted as he felt his own overload approaching.

Sideswipe screaming Thunderhoof's name—in the most unbelievably spike-hardening manner—was what did him in. Thunderhoof buried himself to the hilt inside Sideswipe as he shouted his climax. He pumped Sideswipe full of transfluid, a continuous stream pouring into the valve. A single overload was all it took to completely empty Thunderhoof and, as he felt the last of his transfluid release into Sideswipe in small bursts, he disconnected from the other with a wet pop. The transfluid, lubricant and energon gushed and spilled out of Sideswipe's gaping valve. Sideswipe let out a pained moan, but there was no mistaking the triumphant grin stretched across his faceplate. Thunderhoof only had a brief period to admire his handiwork before fatigue caught up with him.

Thoroughly spent, Thunderhoof rolled his massive frame off of Sideswipe and collapsed onto the berth. Sideswipe crawled to his side to lay his arm across the other's chest. They looked at each other and exchanged weak smiles. Thunderhoof looked and felt exhausted; Sideswipe was the same, but with a flushed, tear-stained faceplate.

“You gonna cry everytime we see each other?” Thunderhoof murmured.

Sideswipe just laughed. This may have been the first time he'd ever seen Thunderhoof look so...calm. Calm and happy. The dour scowl that usually marked his features was, for the moment, gone. Thunderhoof had never looked so good.

“ 'Hoof, I think you might've—”

He was cut off by Thunderhoof's private intercom buzzing to life. The two of them sighed in annoyance. 

Thunderhoof reached over to the device and punched the “answer” button. “Whaddaya want? I'm busy.” The mobster hissed.

A laugh came from the other end of the line. “Sorry for the trouble, boss. But some back alley quack's lookin' for Sideswi—”

“ 'Back alley quack' my shiny red aft! I'm a medical doctor with a degree and a sire on a mission! _Sideswipe_! You're coming home!”

Sideswipe's optics grew wide. The look of satisfaction on his faceplate was gone and replaced by absolute dread. “ _Smelt._ ”


	6. Of Assistance, Part One: Fixit/Bumblebee

**I.**

* * *

Fixit heard Bumblebee before he saw him.

“Grimlock's great. Don't get me wrong. But he comes way too early.”

It was all unexpected—completely and utterly unexpected. In this secluded part of the junkyard, at this hour of the day, with no precedent whatsoever, hearing _Bumblebee_ saying _those_ words was unexpected; so unexpected that Fixit's own frame rebelled against his better judgement. 

There were no power chip rectifiers to be found here; just the Lieutenant bemoaning his apparently lackluster sex life to an audience of inanimate Earthen refuse. Fixit could have, should have, turned on his non-existent heels and quietly wheeled away. Eavesdropping was wrong, that much he knew, ergo leaving the Lieutenant to his own devices was the right thing to do. His processor screamed at him to do just that. His frame had other ideas.

Today, he was a slave to his own morbid curiosity.

“Smokescreen lasted longer than Grim did. But his size?” Fixit heard Bumblebee snort derisively. The closer he got, the more the laugh took on a pitying tone. “It's no contest.”

Fixit crouched behind a row of decrepit refrigerators. A mere few meters away from his hiding spot, the Lieutenant continued listing off his unsatisfactory sexual experiences. And Bumblebee had amassed a surprising, almost insulting, amount of them, if his words were anything to go by. This was so, so very wrong, but damn the “Inquisitiveness” peripheral of his personality component, Fixit _had_ to know more. The Minicon's rattling intakes settled into an almost-eerie calm as he—once again, against his better judgement—listened to Bumblebee.

“Now Drift...Drift would've been perfect. Nice, big, fat spike. Decent amount of experience under his belt. And his kinky side is a thing of magic. But the bot's got hang-ups the size of his pauldrons.”

First Grimlock. Then somebot named Smokescreen. Now Drift. Three names of three bots who had shared a berth with Bumblebee at one time or another.

“Knock Out had them too, but at least he didn't bottle them up like Drift did. And the things he could do with that buffer...”

Make that _four_ names of _four_ bots who had shared a berth with Bumblebee at one time or another.

The very notion of Bumblebee—stalwart, righteous, heroic, seemingly chaste Bumblebee—bedding other mechs simply awed Fixit. He'd perused the archives of the _Alchemor_ more than once; he'd accessed the secret dossier containing the more notable sexual exploits of many of its prisoners. He could easily imagine Thunderhoof getting arrested mid coitus, sandwiched between two of his trusted bodyguards; he could picture Filch being caught posing as a call bot and trying to rip off a senator's gem-encrusted crotch plate. But the idea of Bumblebee—stalwart, righteous, heroic, not-quite-chaste Bumblebee—amassing a plethora of sexual exploits left Fixit dumbstruck.

Still. Improbable as it may have seemed, the evidence did not lie. It was a truth, plain and simple.

“They were all good. No question. But they weren't _great_.”

Still. Something seemed off. Bumblebee appeared discontent. His voice sounded as though it was weighed down by dissatisfaction.

“Although that may be more my fault than theirs. Maybe I'm just too demanding?”

Fixit pursed his lip plates together in thought. With careful consideration, he mulled over all of the information he had just acquired.

Bumblebee's current emotional state: unhappy. 

The cause of Bumblebee's unhappiness: intense sexual frustration brought about by partners who could not perform to his standards. 

The solution to Bumblebee's unhappiness: interface aforementioned intense sexual frustration right out of his system by performing to aforementioned standards.

It seemed simple enough. Fixit would bang—an odd but apt euphemism he picked up from Sideswipe—the unhappiness out of the Lieutenant. Anatomical incompatibility and inexperience aside. Those he could remedy with the proper amount of time. 

And, with the absence of power chip rectifiers, he was free to reorganize his priorities.

And of all mechs past, present and future, Fixit deemed Bumblebee to be most worthy of happiness and satisfaction.

Fixit decided then and there to help out the Lieutenant.

* * *

Ask Fixit and he would readily admit that his social skills weren't always up to task. He wasn't built to be a _bon vivant_ who serenely glided from one joyful conversation to the next. He wasn't created with “approachable” or “convivial” or “affable” in mind. He knew deep in his spark that he wasn't properly equipped to resolve impalpable matters of a delicate nature. Regardless of his primary function, no matter the unwritten laws of the universe, Fixit was going to help Bumblebee with his sex life as best a Minicon could.

That was one of two sentences he never even considered would or could form in his processor.

“Perhaps I could assist you with your sexual frustrations, Lieutenant Bumblebee?” Was the other.

Bumblebee whipped around on his pedes, a look of absolute horror etched on his faceplate. At that instant, whatever pigment embellished his faceplate had left it completely. “Fixit!” He gasped as the Minicon wheeled towards him.

“Sir!” Fixit stopped a short distance in front of Bumblebee and straightened his spinal strut.

“Wha—what are you doing here?”

“Lieutenant Bumblebee,” Fixit began in a chipper tone that, judging by Bumblebee's expression, wasn't exactly appropriate. “I was originally here seeking power chip rectifiers to better improve the team's collective fighting prowess. I found none and was about to leave when I overbird—turd— _HEARD_ you mourning your lack of sexual satisfaction. For that, I sincerely apologize.”

“Oh. Oh, Primus.” Bumblebee's optics grew as round as wheel rims. “You heard...me...”

“I heard enough, Lieutenant. And I believe that I can provide a practical solution to your predicament.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something based on an idea that just wouldn't leave me be. I ship Bumblebee with everyone, so why not make good on that belief? I've written Bumblebee shtupping the biggest of their lot (Grimlock, naturally), now it's time for me to write Bumblebee shtupping the tiniest of their lot (Fixit, of course; unless there's an audience for Slipstream and Jetstorm tag teaming Bumblebee). While there was no actual shtupping in this chapter, the succeeding one will. Also the word “shtup” amuses me far too much.


	7. Sonsy Girl: Chop Shop/Strongarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quickie written for no other reason that I wanted to.

Unstoppable; at least, Strongarm thought she was. The events that had transpired thus far lent weight to her belief.

The impenetrable darkness of the Earth's night. The uneven rocky terrain that dipped and arched. The endless walls of organic brush and shrub. The grating din that was Sideswipe howling after her, demanding that she wait for him. None of that had slowed her down in her pursuit of the escaped Decepticon.

It was the red insectile gestalt; the one whose arm-unit freed him from stasis. Chop Shop was his name. Didn't matter much since, either way, he was going back to stasis.

The Unstoppable Strongarm would make sure of that.

Following the sound of heavy pedefalls led Strongarm into a clearing surrounded by even more trees. Hanging overhead, the waning moon and stars provided only the faintest of illumination. Strongarm didn't pay it any mind. Chop Shop was nearby. She could feel it in her spark and her energon lines.

“Come out, Decepticon!” Strongarm snarled, brandishing her blaster from its holster. 

“Buzz off, copper! We just want off this rock!” Answered Chop Shop from... _somewhere_. He _was_ nearby. Very close too. But the thick foliage and lack of proper light made it difficult to pinpoint his exact location.“That ain't a crime, innit?” He added from somewhere behind Strongarm. Or was he in front of her?

“I can sympathize with your intentions, Decepticon.” Strongarm said as she held her blaster close to her chest, optics darting back and forth in a futile attempt to spot the fugitive. “Believe me, I can. But your methods leave much to be desired.”

“Is nickin' a few parts here and there from some organics such a bad thing?”

“In a word: yes.”

“Well bugger us then.” Chop Shop began in a tone that made Strongarm's spark race in its chamber. She'd heard that tone several times in the past, all from mechs whose backs were against the wall. The ones who wouldn't go down without a fight.“Oi, if it makes you feel any better, copper, we're stealin' just one thing tonight.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Strongarm demanded, vocals low.

Chop Shop burst out of the thicket beside her and was on Strongarm before she could react. All it took was one nanosecond of distraction for him to disarm her. The blaster was knocked out of her servos, and her balance lost, in one fluid movement of Chop Shop's larger frame. The glow of his optics aside, she couldn't really see him but she could _feel_ him. Could feel the grip of his servos on her waist and chin; could feel the rumble of satisfied laughter shaking his chassis; could feel the disgusting sense of satisfaction rolling off his energy field as he, slag it all, revelled in his victory over her. 

Strongarm barely had a moment to cry out in anger before the Decepticon silenced her with a kiss.

A very _good_ kiss, Strongarm noted as, _slag it all **again**_ , her frame burned up with a myriad of conflicting emotions. Criminal he may be, a terrible kisser he was not. Yet the shock, the confusion, the excitement and the thrill all paled in comparison to the single thought running through Strongarm's processor. The small string of words that kept her sane and still in Chop Shop's—surprisingly tender but not entirely unwelcome—embrace.

_This is so wrong but so right._

Mercifully, Chop Shop broke it off before Strongarm could reciprocate. 

“A kiss. From a sonsy girl.” He _purred_ at her.

Strongarm was quiet, even as Chop Shop released her and allowed her to drop to the ground. She didn't scream at him, didn't unleash a barrage of righteous indignation, didn't bother to put on her perfected front of professional stoicism. The bluster, the smugness was gone. Strongarm could only stare up at him with disbelieving optics that, if the Decepticon wasn't mistaken, were aglow with joy.

He wasn't the only one that enjoyed that.

Chop Shop let out a hearty laugh and blew Strongarm a kiss. If she didn't see it, she most likely heard it. “Catch you later, sonsy girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **son·sy**  
>  'sän(t)se/  
>  _having an attractive and healthy appearance._


	8. Collision Repairs: Knock Out/Starscream

Knock Out stares at the mirror. His reflection wears a look of intent disdain. Squinted optics glare at his frame, once pristine and now blemished. Marked by clusters of thin white scratches. Peppered with shallow dents and dings. Patches of red paint coming off in flakes. Smudged with fading traces of silver.

All this damage done to him in one night.

One night with Starscream.

One night with Starscream finally surrendering to Knock Out's dogged romantic aspirations.

One night with Starscream finally surrendering to Knock Out's dogged romantic aspirations and desires for a more intimate relationship.

One night with Starscream capitulating to his body's need for a nice frag.

Or two. Or three.

Knock Out's frown deepens; he remembers.

He remembers Starscream dragging him into the Air Commander's private quarters. He remembers Starscream hurling him onto a berth curiously built for two. He remembers Starscream whispering of the things to come (aside from himself and Knock Out, that is) while straddling the grounder's hips. He remembers Starscream telling him in a disturbingly coy manner that “rough” and “hard” was how he liked it, and that Knock Out had better “gird his loins” for “the best and longest night of his life”.

Knock Out shutters his optics; he can't forget.

He can't forget the astonishing displays of sexual experience and endurance Starscream demonstrated before him. He can't forget the enjoyable warmth of Starscream's intake, or the adroitness of his glossa, or the pleasant sensations of the seeker's dentae upon spike and neck cables. He can't forget the tightness of both Starscream's valve and rear port, both exquisite to the touch and both divine to taste. He can't forget the wanton filth endlessly spilling from Starscream's mouth; the dirty words, vulgar promises and atrocious obscenities still ringing in his audials. He can't forget the gravity-defying, processor-sickness-inducing positions Starscream wanted to be taken in, most of which were better suited for flyers. He can't forget Starscream explicitly laying out his wishes to share his berth with a lover that could take as good as he could give.

Knock Out steadies his gaze. A servo touches a constellation of miniscule cuts on his left pauldron. The vestiges of terrifyingly sharp talons, clinging to him one moment, caressing him the next. Knock Out reminisces.

He remembers Starscream laying next to him when his strength finally fails him. He can't forget the sorry state the Air Commander was in; the shocking amounts of transfluids inside and all over him and the prominent bloat of his mid-section were too much to see on Starscream. He can't forget the look of sheer satisfaction and happiness on Starscream's faceplate, the spark-breaking rawness of his expression a contrast to the seeker's practiced veneer of contemptuousness. He remembers Starscream thanking the medic profusely and even daring to steal a kiss. He remembers Starscream off-handedly deriding Lord Megatron choosing Shockwave over himself, a poor choice given that Starscream could better withstand their Lord's more appalling fetishes. He remembers Starscream realizing what he had just said and staring at Knock Out in open-mouthed horror.

Knock Out is—was lonely. They both were. And he wasn't going to hold it against Starscream, Knock Out remembers assuring him then. If they were going to be lonely, the could at least be lonely together, Knock Out recalls jokingly telling Starscream that as he wiped away drops of optic fluid. Decepticons they may be, but they were Cybertronians first, and Cybertronians had to stick together in such trying times. Knock Out can never forget holding the shaking, sobbing Starscream and softly reassuring him that...

...that...

Knock Out scowls. His exact words to Starscream then were a blur to him. The onset of recharge had rendered his own words into indecipherable babble in his processor. A most unfortunate turn of events met with heavy sighing. 

But, if he had to go by his memory of Starscream's face, he must've said something right.

The corners of his mouth prick up. A faint smile begins to form.

Damaged as he may be, it was worth. Oh so worth it.

Knock Out allows himself to smile before he reaches for his scratch repair kit.

It was going to be a long day.


	9. Kibosh: Steeljaw/Bumblebee

Steeljaw is relentless. Bumblebee realizes it too late.

Night has bled into day. Birds trill in chorus to greet the sun. Morning dew glistens upon wet blades of grass. 

And Steeljaw has yet to stop interfacing with Bumblebee.

Correction.

Steeljaw has yet to stop fucking Bumblebee like the very fate of the universe depended on it.

“Lieutenant, you are simply _delicious_.” Steeljaw tells the exhausted mech beneath him. The wolf-con sounds as smug as he looks. Inflects his vocals with a haughtiness to match his cocksure expression. The slag-eating grin remains even as he slams his hips against Bumblebee's and empties his load into the sore, stretched valve rippling around his spike. He closes his optics, stills his breath. Steeljaw wants to savor this moment with little distractions. He wants to revel in this experience at a very pure level.

Bumblebee refuses. He may be lying on his face with his aft in the air and a frame that's worse for wear, but he was still an Autobot. From his position on the ground, he throws Steeljaw a heated glare. “Cut it out, Steeljaw. You've had your fun. Now go.” Bumblebee says in the most intimidating voice he can muster.

Steeljaw only laughs. “An admirable display of delusions of authority, Lieutenant.” He purrs as he opens his optics. “Sadly, the effects of your little...threat are a tad diminished...” 

Without warning, Steeljaw pulls out of Bumblebee. The yellow 'bot's look of shock rapidly turns into one of embarrassment. Not only does he _feel_ Steeljaw's transfluid surge out of his valve, he also _smells_ it. Heady, pungent and thick; hours upon hours of uninhibited 'facing in a long-since-dried-up riverbed had all but turned Bumblebee into an absolute mess. There wasn't a single spot on Bumblebee's chassis that hadn't been smeared with dirt or cum, nor was there a hole that Steeljaw hadn't filled to the brim.

The wolf-con tucks away his flaccid spike before looking down at Bumblebee with mock pity. “...what with your _cunt_...” Steeljaw hisses the human word with relish. “...so full of cum...” 

Steeljaw bends down to stroke the other's cheek. “...and arousal written all over your face.”

Bumblebee doesn't flinch nor does he pull away. “You're rambling, Steeljaw.” He tells the Decepticon in an even voice. Steeljaw notes it with amusement.

“And you're lying, Lieutenant.” The wolf-con chuckles before hooking one of his claws inside Bumblebee's thoroughly used valve. “You wouldn't have come here if you didn't want this.” Dragging his claw back and forth across sensitive valve sensors elicits a stifled moan from the Autobot.

“Ah, but you need not worry about me telling others about our trysts. After all,” Steeljaw leans closer as his digits spread the supple entrance even wider, allowing him to fit nearly all of his servo into the other's valve. Bumblebee shudders, trying and failing to suppress the oncoming, devastating overload coursing through his systems. His willpower and self-restraint cracks when Steeljaw whispers into his audial. “I can't get enough of you either.”


	10. Walk the Dinosaur: Grimlock/Drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The yawning void of Bottom- _RiD2015_ -Drift has just been filled by Grimlock. Figuratively and literally. A little something for the folks on Tumblr who've a hankering for Bottom- _RiD2015_ -Drift.

This was wrong. So very wrong. To borrow from Sideswipe's curious vernacular, so very wrong on so many levels. Were his pupils, his other teammates or the Decepticons to see him as he was, none of them would see him the same way again. They wouldn't even dare look him in his optics. It would be too much for them to bear, that much he was certain of. But Drift didn't care.

At that moment, Drift didn't and couldn't care.

Surrounding them is the decaying wreckage of a fire-ravaged compound. What was once a human settlement has since been repurposed into Drift and Grimlock's secret rendezvous point. Above him is Grimlock taking him in Dinobot form. He is—to borrow from Sideswipe once more—straight up fucking Drift right into the ground. A crude choice of words, Drift decides in a fleeting moment of lucidity, but very apt.

Lying on splayed servos and spread knee joints, Drift can do nothing but allow Grimlock to utterly and completely dominate him.

That is all that matters now.

“You doin' okay down there, Drift?” Grimlock rumbles suddenly, pausing to peer down at Drift. He sounds concerned and slightly guilty. Understandable. This is the first time he's interfaced Drift in his alt-mode. He's bigger, stronger and more uncontrollable; all qualities that thrill the bounty hunter's once-dormant submissive coding.

“Absolutely, Grimlock.” Drift answers just as a small overload tears through his sytem. The eigth or tenth of the night. He's since lost count, processor far too scrambled and harried for logical thought. “More than 'okay', if I have to be honest.” Drift says in a shuddering breath, just as the overload fades.

“So. Should I—”

“Continue?” Drift finishes for him.

“Nah.” Grimlock flashes the other mech a wide grin. “Go faster.”

Drift's spark pulses excitedly. The Dinobot is buried to the hilt inside of his valve. It's a tight fit they've worked around with gusto. Their size discrepancy alone has been enough to send Drift weeping and delirious over the edge numerous times—and that was with Grimlock in his normal form. What more if Grimlock, in his alt-mode, let go of his personal restraints and decided ride Drift with wild abandon? “By all means.”

Grimlock shifts. The angle changes. Drift feels it. Feels the massive spike driving into him with more force and rapidity. Feels the huge girth straining his valve walls to their limits, stretching him wider than he thought possible. Feels ridges dragging across delicate sensors and rubbing against tender mesh lining. Feels the pointed head bearing down on the deepest-seated valve nodes. Feels the Dinobot pushing against the entrance to his gestation chamber. Feels Grimlock doing his best and giving his all in ensuring that this night will never be forgotten.

In short, Drift feels amazing.

Grimlock continues pounding into him without a single word. Save for the occasional grunt, the larger mech remains mostly silent. A tiny part of Drift wishes for Grimlock to forego the reticence. Hearing his own shameless moaning rising well above the metallic din of their 'facing is such an odd experience for Drift. His berth mates of yore couldn't get so much as a squeak out of him; even Fracture lost his self-control far easier than Drift did. But here was Grimlock reducing him to a panting, babbling pile of need.

A thought crosses Drift's mind. What else could Grimlock do to him? What else _would_ Grimlock do to him? Frag his rear port raw while in Dinobot form? Invite one of the others to join in to 'face both his aft and valve? Turn him into the carrier of their Autobot-Dinobot spawn? Frag him while his belly was full of sparklings? Salacious thoughts all, yet Drift couldn't help feeling a perverse sense of delight at each one.

His train of thought is interrupted by Grimlock. “Drift, I'm close. I'm gonna lose it.” Grimlock chokes on the last word.

“Then I bid you to _lose_ it, Grimlock.” Drift says breathlessly.

Grimlock complies and pushes into Drift with one final thrust, the base of his spike bottoming out Drift's valve. Across his optics, static erupts and explodes.

Then darkness.

* * *

“I sense a question lingering between you, pupils.”

Jetstorm and Slipstream exchange nervous looks; Jetstorm in particular looks about to ready to burst. Drift watches them and waits for someone, anyone, to speak up.

Slipstream takes the plunge. “Does it hurt, Master Drift?” He asks. The look of mute fascination and horror etched on the Minicon's faceplate does not go unnoticed.

“Do I look pained, Slipstream?” Drift shoots back.

Slipstream winces but quickly composes himself. “No! Not at all, Master! But—it's just—well—“ He stammers ineffectually before Jetstorm leaps in.

“Judging by the size of your mid-section, it's highly unlikely that you're carrying a single sparkling within your gestation chamber, Master Drift. Me and Slipstream estimate that you might be expecting a ternion, perhaps even a quaternion.”

Drift is tempted to lecture his pupils on constructing their words with more tact, but realizes that, in his agitated state, it might turn into a verbal whipping. Neither of the Minicons deserve it, especially since it wasn't their fault that he was carrying.

Grimlock and Grimlock alone was to blame. He wasn't here, however, and was off collecting building materials for their nest. An undertaking he tackled with even more enthusiasm than warranted. The zeal appeared to stem partly from sirehood protocols kicking in, and partly from guilt at –to steal from Sideswipe's boorish but oddly appropriate parlance—pumping Drift full of Dinobot babies. Regardless of Grimlock's intentions, his efforts were and continued to be appreciated.

“Consider this a lesson, pupils.” Drift says softly. “If you are going to rumble with a Dinobot, you had better be prepared for everything he has to throw at you.”


	11. Ternion: Steeljaw/Sideswipe/Thunderhoof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  __ **themoosemafia said**  
>  Carrying Hoof being dragged by Steeljaw while fragging Sideswipe?
> 
> * * *
> 
> My two top Thunderhoof OTP's rolled into one? How could I resist? Simple: I cannot.
> 
> This is vaguely AU-ish in flavor, so be prepared for a wee bit of canon divergence.

His mates are in top form tonight.

Sideswipe especially. The former Autobot appears to be having the time of his life bouncing up and down Thunderhoof's spike. Every thrust into his over-stuffed valve is punctuated by an overjoyed squeak. Each moan escaping though his parted lip plates is a breathy expression of thanks to the wolf-con watching him with hungry optics. Every sway of his rounded, still-growing belly is a testament to his commitment to Steeljaw's—no, to the _Decepticon_ cause.

“Mine.” Steeljaw tells Sideswipe in a fierce whisper. Pausing momentarily from fragging Thunderhoof, the Decepticon brushes his lip plates against the other's.

“Yours.” Sideswipe murmurs in agreement, leaning forward to deepen the kiss.

Steeljaw smiles. Bringing the red 'bot over to their side was easy; getting him to return Steeljaw and Thunderhoof's affections was a whole other matter entirely. But with machinations most judicious and patience befitting a saint, it was done. And it was worth it.

“All mine.” Steeljaw whispers.

“Ey-yo!” Thunderhoof snarls from underneath Sideswipe. Not one to be ignored, he lifts his frame off the floor to prop up on his elbows and glare at the other two mechs. Or tries to. With Sideswipe seated on his hips, and a litter of sparklings growing within his distended mid-section, his effort becomes an exercise in futility. Thunderhoof rests his helm on the floor with a frustrated growl. He then settles on raising his voice instead. “If you two are done bein' all shmoopy-woopy up there, maybe we could finish what we started?”

“Why, you getting tired down there, 'Hoof?” Sideswipe jokes as he breaks away from Steeljaw.

“Watch it, kid.” Thunderhoof snaps, curling one servo into a fist.

“Hey, if you can't handle Steeljaw and me at the same time, you should just say so.” Sideswipe says, sounding unbelievably smug.

The mech below him responds by grinding his deeper spike into the too-small valve. Sideswipe, in turn, shrieks in surprise and falls, shaking, into Steeljaw's arms. Clinging tightly to the wolf-con, Sideswipe can do little else but wait for the sudden, explosive overload to ebb as quickly as it came. He's reduced to a trembling, wheezing mess whose filthy little valve is overflowing with cum. But Thunderhoof still isn't satisfied.

“You lookin' to get a fat lip plate?” Thunderhoof growls, vocals low and dangerous. “Bad enough I gotta deal with mornin' sickness. I do not need to see you two gettin' lovey-dovey like a couple a dumb-fuck new-sparks. I ain't got enough to purge.”

Steeljaw laughs. “Do excuse Thunderhoof, my sweet.” He cooes as he suddenly buries himself to the hilt inside Thunderhoof.

The bigger mech lets out a broken shout, one that sounds like a garbled curse. Steeljaw ignores it. His attention is still on Sideswipe, now falling dangerously close to recharge. “He's simply emotional, and a bit jealous. After all, neither of us are sure who the sire of your up-and-coming brood is. They could be mine,” A servo lingers downwards to pinch Thunderhoof's swollen anterior node, drawing yet another howl from the elk-con. “they could be his. Regardless...”

His own overload cuts him off. Steeljaw's breath hitches in his intake and he nearly keels over himself. The sensation of Thunderhoof's valve clamping down on him is almost too much for him to take. Steadying his frame, he unloads his transfluids inside of the elk-con. Thunderhoof lets slip a humiliated whimper; Steeljaw comes in thick, long bursts, in amounts that ooze out of the overworked valve and spill onto the floor of their base.

Regaining his bearings, Steeljaw continues, holding a now-unconscious Sideswipe close to his spark. “Our pack is going to become a force to be reckoned with.”


	12. Sex, Or Something Adjacent To It: Chop Shop/Fixit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  __ **Anonymous said:**  
>  Hello! For your requests maybe something steamy with Chopit? Maybe from the first time they try to do the do? Or anything with them really I'm desperate for such a cute pairing! Thank you <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> Emphasis on _try_.

“Well? What ya waitin' for, Widge?”

Fixit struggles to say something, anything.

“Whassamatter, Widge?”

Anything coherent, at least. His wits, as it stands, have left him. What remains cannot even consider logical thought. Not with Chop Shop laying before him. Not with Chop Shop's legs spread wide, his interface array exposed and a come-fuck-me-raw expression clear on his faceplate. No one has ever looked at him that way before, Fixit realizes. No one has ever offered themselves up to him so willingly before.

It is an exciting, terrifying, brand-new thought that has Fixit frozen on the spot.

“Widge?”

Fixit tries to answer.

_Tries_.

He comes up short. A timid little cheep is all his vocalizer can produce.

“Oh, Widget.”

To his relief, Chop Shop doesn't burst into laughter or mock him. Chop Shop simply looks at him with pity; which, Fixit argues as his lucidity comes flooding back to him, is arguably even worse. Bad enough that he outright annihilated the mood of romance and then danced on its charred remains. He doesn't need Chop Shop, of all mechs, to feel sorry for him and his uncanny mood-killing abilities.

“I'm sorry.” Fixit mutters in a small voice.

“Performance anxiety, eh, love?”

“I'm sorry.” Fixit repeats, shoulders drooping in despondence.

Chop Shop sits upright and scoops the Minicon into his arms. “Don't be, Widget, it happens to the best of us.” The larger mech says reassuringly.

The gentle touches make Fixit melt into the embrace. He rests his helm against the other's chest plates, enjoying the soothing pulse of the spark encased within. Though the mood and the moment were gone, Chop Shop wasn't holding it against him. They have a long night ahead. But at least it isn't going to be spent wallowing in disappointment or bitterness. A small comfort for Fixit. This is a side of the ex-Decepticon that none of the other Autobots get to see.

“This would've been your first, right?” Chop Shop asks him.

“Affirmative.” Fixit admits sheepishly.

Chop Shop nods in understanding. “That why you were quakin' in your little wheel struts?” He says, softer now.

Fixit considers his answer. “I suppose so. Though I'm not built for conventional interfacing, that's a hurdle I can queasily—breezily— _EASILY_ —overcome with the right equipment. And have, thanks to you, Chop Shop. The sudden spate of dread, uneasiness and all other analogous emotions, however, was an unforeseen setback.”

“Like we said, Widge. Happens to the best of us.”

“I wish it didn't happen to me.”

“Well, we're glad it did.”

Fixit blinks up at Chop Shop. Then his eyes widen in an equal mixture of shock and disbelief. “I beg your pardon?” He sputters.

Chop Shop smiles at him. “If weren't such a nervous little thing, you'd be _perfect_ , and we'd have competition!”

Fixit feels his faceplate heating up as the other mech breaks into a laughing fit. Chop Shop raining kisses on his aforementioned flush faceplate just makes Fixit feel even hotter.

“Next time, Widge.” Chop Shop says between kisses. “Next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I will eventually write some nice, proper smut featuring these two cuddle bugs.


	13. Lady and the Tramp: Humanformers Chop Shop/Female-Drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **driftingsamurai said:**  
>  Mistress Drift and Mister Chop Shop maybe? Humanformers?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Allow me to preface this piece of writing by saying I apologize for nothing. Allow me to follow that up with my admittance that the thought of Chop Shop/Drift anythings is rather peculiar but positively enthralling. It's an odd ship, yes, but it's an intriguing one too.
> 
> The idea of Humanformers-Drift having a tattoo on his/her back isn't mine, credit goes to you, driftingsamurai.

“Never knew you had a tattoo back there, love.”

Drift doesn't give him an answer. Her focus is entirely on her reflection. She is brushing her long, dark hair while callously the heavily tattoed, red-haired man on the bed. He, however, doesn't seem to mind. She can see him pursing his lips in mild annoyance, then turning that slight frown into a bemused grin, then rising from the bed to join her in front of the bedroom vanity. She can see him walking towards her with a noticeable erection; he's naked, they both are, and this wouldn't be the first time for them to see each other in the buff. She can see him sitting beside her on the bench with that same lopsided grin and a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“We repeat: never knew you had a tattoo back there, love.” Chop Shop intones with more interest this time around. He is, of course, referring to the ornate dragon tattoo decorating nearly all of her back. Under normal circumstances, it is hidden by her suit or her hair; under these circumstances, Chop Shop is able to view it in all its glory.

“You never asked.” Drift says flatly, still not looking at him. “Nor did you ever seem to look.”

“How could we be lookin' at that when we've been lookin' at these?”

Drift's expression remains unreadable even as Chop Shop cups one of her breasts in his hand. Bigger than most other women's and softer than the rest of her muscular body, the younger man has never been able to keep his hands off them for long. Drift has since taken his mild fascination with her breasts in stride. She only reacts when he pinches her nipple, swatting his fingers with the broad side of her brush. “We agreed, Chop Shop. No contact outside of the bed.” She tells him sternly as he pulls back to massage his sore digits.

“We never forgot that but,” Chop Shop stops to hiss in pain. “thank you for remindin' us.”

“You will have to keep that in mind the next time we convene in this location.”

His face brightens instantly. “ 'Next time'?”

“I am a woman with many needs, Chop Shop.” Drift says, putting the brush down on the vanity table. She then turns to face him and looks him straight in the eye. “You fulfill a number of them quite admirably. I would be aggrieved if I were to renounce your company for any reason.”

“Aww, the bounty hunter likes us.” Chop Shop smiles at her.

“To an extent.”

Chop Shop puffs up in pride. “That's good enough for us. That just means that nobody else in your social circle's a better shag than we are.”

Drift rolls her eyes. “Believe whatever makes you happy.” She tells him in a dismissive tone. “I, on the other hand, must rest.”

“Big day tomorrow.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That is on a need to know basis, and you do not need to know.”

Chop Shop opens his mouth to say something, but Drift is off the bench and on the bed before he can come up with a witty comeback. He scrambles after her and nearly knocks over the bench in his haste.

“Come on, before you nod off to dream land, won't you at least tell us what the deal is with your beastly back tat?” He begs as he climbs onto the bed and settles down beside Drift.

She gives him a single, withering look then turns away from the him. “No.”

“Oh come on. Please?”

“No.”

“What if I ate you out after depositin' my load inside you, like you've been wantin', would you tell me then?”

“Chop Shop. I. Need. To. Sleep.” She growls with her back still against him.

“And I need to know the story behind your back tat.” Chop Shop persists. “So, what do you say, love? Once more 'round the block?”

He smiles a little when he hears the sigh.

“Fine.” Drift concedes.

Chop Shop watches her turn over and settle onto her back. She appears mildly annoyed by this turn of events, face set in a scowl. But Chop Shop can tell that she's not entirely against this idea. The glistening peek of pink between Drift's thighs has him salivating; the sight of her spreading her legs and her pussy lips has him on top of her in an instant.

“Make it quick. And make it worth it.” Drift demands just as Chop Shop begins pushing his cock head inside of her.

“Oh, don't you worry.” He says huskily. “We will.”


	14. Tonight: Steeljaw/Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **sarafinatheasassin asked:**  
>  Hi I was wondering if you could do a steeljaw/bumblebee smut fic like something different from your other story if it's okay

Tonight, they try something different. Tonight, they see how much Bumblebee can take.

Of course, Bumblebee gently yet firmly reminds Steeljaw, there are still rules to be upheld and boundaries to stay well within, regardless of the ever-changing nature of their relationship. Worry not, Steeljaw reassures Bumblebee with a wolfish smile, as he intends to leave no permanent marks and only sweet memories they can both look back upon with longing. It, Steeljaw adds as he delves two thick digits between the slick folds of Bumblebee's valve, would be an absolute shame to ruin everything they'd since built together as not-quite-friends-not-quite-enemies.

“I'll think of a better name for it later.” Steeljaw murmurs as he nips Bumblebee's neck plating, maintaining a light touch all throughout. Grazing dentae against pliable metal; not biting. Brushing lip plates across thin seams; not kissing.

“It's—it's fine as it is.” Bumblebee whispers shakily, arching his spinal strut and throwing his helm back. Under the wolf-con's calculated ministrations he can cast aside all semblances of propriety. Modesty has no place here. Not in their secret little love nest. Not with his back against a wall. Not under Steeljaw's nimble claws.

“Absolutely not, Lieutenant.” Steeljaw fiercely counters. “What you and I have needs to be defined in much more refined terms—terms brief yet all-inclusive,” He pauses to lavish attention upon the fresh expanse of exposed neck plating. He feels the pliable metal trembling and the warm valve becoming hotter. He inserts another digit into Bumblebee, delighting in the sensation of those hot, wet, familiar walls of cables and mesh lining tightly clamping down on him. Steeljaw almost loses his train of thought. Almost. “simple yet elegant. Those words are much too _vulgar_ for us, Bumblebee, and we are anything _but_. At least, _I'm_ not.”

Steeljaw pulls back to look the other in the optics. “Can we truly say the same about _you_?” His voice drops down to a harsh whisper and his own golden optics twinkle. Whether with glee or mischief, it doesn't matter. It gets a reaction from Bumblebee; that is what matters.

“Stop talking.” Bumblebee says in what is surely a snarl.

“And.” On his faceplate is an expression that is definitely a desirious one.

“Just.” His chassis is indeed bucking against Steeljaw's and driving the roving digits deeper inside of him.

“ _Fuck. Me._ ”

Steeljaw feels his spike thudding heavily against its protective casing. He loves seeing Bumblebee like this. Golden child of the Autobots the yellow mech may be, yet even he isn't completely immune to the primal coding written within his CNA. All it took, Steeljaw notes with pride thrumming in his spark and heat radiating in his pelvic armor, was the right mech to make Bumblebee realize that.

“As you wish, _Lieutenant_.”

Bumblebee, Steeljaw decides then and there, can handle more than three digits.

A hum of approval is all the warning the wolf-con gives. It's all Bumblebee needs.

A look of distress briefly flashes across Bumblebee's faceplate. The wolf-con sees the optics flying wide open and the lip plates forming a perfect circle. The pained hiss emerging from Bumblebee's intake changes into a low moan. Steeljaw exhales a shuddering sigh, mirroring the soft noises coming from the other.

Then silence.

Then, slowly, he unflexes his digits.

He feels the valve gripping tightly and greedily at his enclosed servo; a supple, fever-hot channel becoming slicker with every twitch of his claw-tipped digits. He smells the muted odor of energon and coolant fluid under the musky aroma of fresh lubricant. He feels the valve contracting and throbbing around the ravaging appendage, larger, more demanding and more flexible than a spike or a toy. He sees genuine desire simmering underneath the bright-blue optics, sees the corners of Bumblebee's mouth drawing upwards into a crooked smile.

Steeljaw curls his servo into a fist. “Brace yourself, Lieutenant.”

Bumblebee licks his lip plates. “Bring it, Steeljaw.”

Steeljaw does, and Bumblebee loves it.

Tonight has just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually finished this fic just a little before I got your other message:
> 
> _sarafinatheasassin asked:  
>  Hi me again I hope I'm not bothering you by doing this but I feel like I should have been more specific anyway I was hoping you could do a steeljaw/bumblebee humanformers smut fic please_
> 
> And me, being an absolute sucker for Humanformers anythings, will have to give the Steeljaw/Bumblebee pairing another shot, albeit one that has them sporting more organic looks. So yes, the chapter following this may just be yet another attempt at Steeljaw/Bumblebee. Maybe.


	15. Present: Humanformers Steeljaw/Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a Guilty Pleasure AU of mine. One wherein both Bumblebee and Steeljaw are members of the police force, Thunderhoof is a female mob boss, and the three of them are in a very special, very sensual relationship. This is self-indulgence at its most shameless and blatant.

The look Bumblebee gives him says it all. Steeljaw, for his part, meticulously notes every little nuance and mentally tucks the information away for future reference. They may or may attempt this— _this_ being the latest in a series of unquestionably debauched and laughably convoluted “sexcapades”—again. From what Steeljaw has and continues to observe, a repeat of this seems highly unlikely.

A shame. Because Bumblebee, whether he'd like to admit it or not, looked positively ravishing. Even with his face flushed in equal parts annoyance and embarrassment, even with the dour expression pockmarking his handsome features, and even—or especially—with his pinkish skin tinged by fading rings of bite marks, Bumblebee is truly a sight to behold.

An overcoat draped over his athletic frame. Leather boots polished until they shone. A silver-ringed collar and matching leather cuffs. Bumblebee is dressed in all that, and nothing else. Both him and Steeljaw.

But, while Bumblebee clings to his overcoat like a lifeline, Steeljaw has already shrugged his off and is relishing the experience. The cool night air caressing his naked body. The nearly empty park and shroud of trees offering false promises of concealment. The slim chance that someone, anyone, could stumble on two high-ranking members of the Cybertronian police force rutting like animals in a public setting. Those elements combined thrill Steeljaw to the core; Bumblebee, however, doesn't share his partner's enthusiasm, nor does he appreciate the ravenous look the other man is giving him.

This is too much. Allowing himself to be roped into this is one thing. Actually going through with it is another. Bumblebee wraps his overcoat tightly around himself and sits down on the nearest park bench.

When he sees Steeljaw still eyeing him, Bumblebee can't help but snap at him. “Take a picture, Steeljaw, it'll last longer.”

“Don't tempt me, Bumblebee. I might just make it my phone's wallpaper.” Steeljaw teases as he completely discards his own overcoat and tosses it to the side.

“ _Don't—_ “ Bumblebee nearly screams. He remembers where he is, who could be nearby, and lowers his voice to a whisper. A harsh, venomous whisper that would make most anyone's hair stand on end. “ _Don't you fucking dare_.”

Steeljaw rolls his eyes, unimpressed. He's heard that tone one too many times before. “Lower those hackles, Lieutenant.” Steeljaw says while sitting down beside Bumblebee. “I'd like to think that even _I_ wouldn't stoop to _that_. Besides. this wouldn't be the first time you and I've played 'Who's Your Daddy' in a public place. Remember 'Operation Break Down'? Or have you already purged the memories of that exquisite little jaunt? You shouldn't have. The pink sheer and white trim really brought out your eyes.” He finishes with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Bumblebee glares at him, but Steeljaw goes on. “I mean, I always knew you were beautiful. I just didn't know you were _gorgeous_.” The last word is said with flourish—flourish that should feel and sound awe-inspiring when uttered by oft-restrained Steeljaw.

It's Bumblebee's turn to look unimpressed. He too has heard that particular tone of voice before. “Really? You're going to try and be romantic? Here and now? While we're dressed like this?” He deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest.

Steeljaw laughs and shrugs. “Can't say I didn't try.” He says good naturedly.

Bumblebee opens his mouth to retort, to let loose a series of scathing invectives he'd been mulling over since their arrival to the park. “Morally Bankrupt Individual”, “Depraved Lunatic” and “Grave-Robbing Poon Hound” are but some of the choice words he's slipped into his Steeljaw-centric diatribe. Unfortunately, Bumblebee doesn't get the chance to use any of them. Steeljaw makes sure of it.

* * *

From the uppermost park gate and the comfort of her car, Thunderhoof watches the scene unfold with great interest. “ _Ey-yo_.” She says while adjusting the focus of her binoculars. “Now this is more like it.”

She sees Bumblebee falling on his back after being knocked down by Steeljaw, sees Steeljaw tearing open the overcoat and exposing Bumblebee to the night. Bumblebee appears to be protesting the rough treatment, if his flailing limbs are anything to go by. Steeljaw quickly silences his complaints by sealing his mouth with a kiss. After a moment, Steeljaw's lips travel from his lips to his jawline and then down to his neck. Steeljaw settles on nibbling at Bumblebee's neck, and the blond man responds by tilting his head back to give Steeljaw more room.

Thunderhoof bites down on her lower lip when she notices Steeljaw's hands roaming over Bumblebee's chest. His thick fingers are roughly playing with the pert nipples: flicking, pulling, squeezing and pressing down on them. He is relentless in his approach, giving Bumblebee no room for pause. Not that Bumblebee minds; the grin on his face is a blissed-out one, a stark contrast to how he appeared just a few minutes before. Steeljaw's assault on Bumblebee's lips and nipples causes him to erratically jerk around on the bench and nearly fall onto the cobblestone path. But Steeljaw is a conscientious lover, Thunderhoof knows that much. When he notices Bumblebee starting to slip off the bench, Steeljaw swiftly repositions them both and maneuvers their bare bodies into seated positions, with Bumblebee on top of his lap.

“Solus Prime.” Thunderhoof mutters under her breath.

“Madam Thunderhoof?” Her driver suddenly says from the front of the car. “You alright?”

“Yous kiddin' me, Kickback? You seein' what I'm seein', right?” She replies, eyes still glued to Steeljaw and Bumblebee.

The lanky man frowns, but makes sure that Thunderhoof doesn't see it. “Er, not really, boss, since you said me and Terrashock couldn't watch.”

“Must be getting' good though, boss lady.” Grunts the robust man in the passenger's seat.

“Damn right it is. Now both a yous shut your yaps and lemme finish this, alright?” Thunderhoof snaps while motioning for them to leave her be.

The two men each give her a curt nod before turning their attentions elsewhere.

Thunderhoof barely notices the aside glance Kickback is giving her. Below, things are truly heating up. Steeljaw not only set Bumblebee on his lap, he also made sure that his erection was right between the blond's perfect buttocks. The overcoat is completely gone now, disappeared to Primus knows where, and Thunderhoof doesn't care. Though she couldn't see Bumblebee's face, his body language was speaking volumes about his state of mind. The straightened back and tensed shoulders as Steeljaw squeezed his rump around the stiff, large member tells the mob boss that Bumblebee is surprised, though just for a moment. The surprise soon gives way to acceptance and Bumblebee is now moving his body up and down, sliding Steeljaw's erection between his plump ass cheeks. Thunderhoof could feel heat building up between her legs, prompting her to cross and uncross them sporadically.

“We, uh, we could help you with that , boss.” Kickback pipes up in a small voice. “Y'know, after you're done with your, uh, your thing.”

If looks could kill, Kickback would've dropped dead on the spot. Thunderhoof glares at the two men now watching her with timid yet hopeful expressions. “If I let you two dumbafts do that later, will that make yous shut up?” She snarls through grit teeth.

Kickback and Terrashock exchange looks, each of them waiting for the other to speak up first. Unwilling to wait for any longer, Thundehoof answers for them. “You let me finish this without no more distractions, and I'll let both a yous do me in the ass later, alright?”

The last thing she sees before going back to Steeljaw and Bumblebee are the shocked expressions on the men's faces.

“At the same time?” Terrashock says in open-mouthed wonder.

"Eh, why not. Hadn't done that since I kicked out Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for knockin' boots with that Filch floozy." Thunderhoof mutters casually.

"Damn, boss!" Kickback declares with a whistle.

Thunderhoof holds up her fist in warning. “Ey-yo! The frag did I just say, huh?”

Silence reigns. Thunderhoof is thankful that her two goons have done as she asked, since Bumblebee and Steeljaw have already begun fucking. The sight makes Thunderhoof's heart beat faster. From simply grinding against the rock-hard erection, Bumblebee has taken to riding it without restraint. Thunderhoof watches, mystified, as Bumblebee bounces up and down Steeljaw's length in a steady pattern. Steeljaw himself is lying back and allowing Bumblebee to do all the work, as far as Thunderhoof could tell. She can see him moving his lips, dispensing words of encouragement to his companion, but not doing more than that.

Which is just perfect. That's how Thunderhoof wants it tonight.

Steeljaw and Bumblebee—her lovers, both—are putting on a show just for her.

“Mmm, my boys.” Thunderhoof coos.

Without warning, Bumblebee slams his hips down, taking in all of Steeljaw. Thunderhoof sees it and feels herself getting hotter and wetter by the second. Both of the younger men throw their heads backwards as Steeljaw releases his load deep inside the shaking Bumblebee. Thick rivulets of cum spill out of the over-stuffed ass, dripping all over Steeljaw's thighs. After Steeljaw empties himself completely, Bumblebee lifts himself off the other man and slumps onto the bench. They're beyond spent. Both too drained to even lift a muscle or acknowledge each in their post-sex bliss. Yet Steeljaw, bless him, forcibly himself closer to Bumblebee and drape himself over the other man. It's the closest thing to an embrace they can manage. Still, the two of them are smiling and—to Thunderhoof's surprise—holding hands as they crash into slumber.

“Best. Birthday. Ever.” Thunderhoof says to herself, dropping the binoculars into her lap. Breathing heavily all the while, she leans back and replays the events, fresh and crystal clear in her mind. Still reeling from the spectacle—and still feeling hot all over—she doesn't see Kickback and Terrashock staring at her expectantly.

“Good thing it isn't over yet, huh, boss lady?” Terrashock grins.

Kickback nods in agreement. “Yeah, we did good, right, boss? We did as you asked. So we can, y'know...” he trails off then clucks his tongue twice.

Thunderhoof sighs. “A flake I ain't, so. Whatever. One a yous tell Scowl to get blondie and wolf-boy outta there and back to the mansion. Don't forget to tell him that we're gonna be a bit late 'cause 'Clampdown popped in with some dirt on Shockwave'. He asks anymore questions, you tell him I said it's on a need to know basis, and he don't need to know, _capisce_?” She barks as she lifts up her skirt to reveal her naked and gleaming-wet pussy.

“You got it, boss!” Kickback cries out excitedly, scrambling for his phone to relay Thunderhoof's orders to their colleague.

“Yeah, yeah, do that and hurry it up, will yous?” She purrs and adjusts her position, giving Terrashock and Kickback a clearer view of what she was offering up to them. “The night ain't gettin' any younger, and neither am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's curious what some of the main players in this farce look like:  
> [Thunderhoof](http://bit.ly/1RZM4CQ) **||**[Bumblebee](http://bit.ly/1QbQf8J)
> 
> I'm a lazy git so I've really only properly done these two. Steeljaw, Kickback and Terrashock are forthcoming. Maybe.


	16. You Deserve This: Humanformers Fracture/Drift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suggested by [theragingtransfan](http://bit.ly/1PTVoSo), some Fracture-domming-Drift goodness.

“Drift, I've been thinking...” begins Fracture in a voice that makes Drift's shiver. It's low and smooth, devoid of its usual coarseness. It's soft and lurid, portending of things filthy and inevitable. It elicits a whimper from Drift. With the gag in his mouth, it's the only sound he can produce. This makes Fracture smile as he continues, casually and evenly, seemingly uncaring that he's since stopped thrusting into the bound and needy man spread out before him. “...maybe I've been too rough on you lately.”

Electric-blue eyes gaze at Fracture in confusion.

“I mean, look at you.” Fracture says, meeting Drift's stare. His own eyes, bright red and fiery, regard Drift with pity. “Look at you.” He repeats.

Drift knows what his lover is talking about, knows full well what he looks like right now. A far cry from what he is and what he appears to their friends and foes. Stoic. Domineering. Contemptuous, he is none of those at this moment. With his arms and legs shackled to the four posts of their bed, with his naked body covered in sweat, fresh and fading marks and drying streaks of cum, with Fracture's piercing-studded cock fully inside his ass...he is anything but the Drift as the public knows him. This is the Drift that Fracture and Fracture alone knows. And use as he sees fit.

“I mean, what haven't I done to you?” Fracture says as he—to Drift's great chagrin—pulls out of the other man. Cum from their earlier sessions leaks out, spilling on the bed.

Drift whines and struggles uselessly against his bonds. It's an effort that rewards him a squeeze on the cock. Fracture's grip on his length is tight, almost vice like. It feels as incredible as it does agonizing; the cock-and-ball rings having already denied Drift his own release countless times in the night. Drift tries to lift his hip, as if to encourage Fracture to move his hand up and down the shaft. If he wasn't going to get fucked, he might be able to get a handjob instead.

Fracture ignores it. He resumes speaking. “Nipple clamps. Rimming. Fisting. Double penetration. And that's not even the worst of it, is it? Drift, we could write a book on the things we've done—on the things I've done to you. On the things you've endured and enjoyed like the masochistic little pain slut you are. And that's why you've done something nobody else has.”

Drift cranes his neck to see Fracture release his cock and then get off the bed. Standing to his full height, Fracture looks Drift over once, a big smile spread across his face. “You've impressed me.” He says with a sincerity that Drift's only heard few times before. “That's why I think you deserve a break.”

Fracture moves from the bed and walks towards a chair in the corner of the room. In the chair is blindfolded man in even more restraints than Drift. His legs, held aloft and wide apart by a spreader bar, tremble as Fracture runs his fingers across the many whip marks decorating the man's inner thighs. Fracture's thin fingers ghost lower to lightly touch the dildo stretching out the pink-tinted asshole. The man in the chair exhales sharply at the feeling of Fracture hooking in two fingers and widening the hole even further.

“What do you think, Drift?” Fracture asks while Drift looks at them hungrily. “Wanna give Thunderhoof a go?”


	17. One For the Team: Breakdown/Starscream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a bit of a writing rut, so I hashed this in an attempt to dredge me out of it.

“Breakdown, Is it just me or does Starscream seem...” Knock Out paused. There were many words that seemed apt for this situation. Far too many, he realized. Too many to be uttered in a single breath. He settled on the ones that sounded the most sexy when he said them. “...unusually chipper today?” He said, giving his companion a questioning glance.

It went unnoticed. Whatever Breakdown was looking at on his datapad appeared to be more interesting than Knock Out's curious expression. And Starscream's inexplicably high-spirited prancing—and there was no other way about it. 

Starscream was _prancing_ about the _Nemesis_ ' halls. _Gambolling_ even. Starscream was bounding around with a spring in his step and a song in his spark. Had Knock Out not spent the better half of the day shadowing the buoyant Air Commander, he wouldn't have believed that Starscream even possessed the capacity for such light-sparked movement. He figured that a few processor components had been knocked loose by Autobot fire; what else, after all, could explain Starscream's abrupt personality change? Knock Out was convinced that something was wrong—terribly, horrifically, awfully wrong—with Starscream. And, from what he had observed from a safe distance, he was right.

Starscream happily chatted up stunned Vehicons, genially conversed with them as though they were old friends from his home city of Vos. He had been uncharacteristically amiable with Soundwave, had generously heaped sincere praise upon the stoic mech and his avian assistant. He was even polite to Airachnid, giving no more than a wistful sigh when she questioned him on his odd behavior.

“It's a fine, fine day to be alive.” Starscream sing-songed to an unimpressed Airachnid.

“Megatron's finally broken you, hasn't he?” She muttered flatly.

“Oh, speaking of our dear Lord Megatron,” Starscream crooned lovingly. “I must inform him about this massive energon deposit I found yesterday. Better we claim it before the Autobots do. Thank you for reminding me, Airachnid.”

Before Airachnid could get a disparaging word in, Starscream was already skipping towards Megatron's personal quarters and Knock Out was bolting for his office.

Loose processor components. An Earth-born virus. A heating cycle scrambling his systems.

The answers to the Starscream enigma had to be one of the three, they _had_ to be. Then Knock Out ran into Breakdown and took the chance. He had a couple of theories, he had an audience, he saw the opportunity and ran with it. Unfortunately, Breakdown quickly proved himself to be anything but the captive audience Knock Out sought. 

“...Sorry, what was that, Knock Out?” Breakdown finally muttered, just as Knock Out had finished going through his three theories.

Knock Out gave him a withering look. “Have you been purposefully ignoring everything I've said so far?”

Breakdown didn't register the irritation in the other's voice or expression. “Oh, you talking about Commander Starscream?” The larger mech asked.

“Yeah, good ol' Screamer just—“

“I 'faced him last night.” Breakdown said as he returned his attention to his datapad.

“—seems so—what was that?” Knock Out turned to Breakdown, optics wide and jaw slack.

Again, Breakdown didn't notice. “I 'faced him last night.” He repeated casually, not bothering to look up as he punched in some numbers. “I wanted to thank him for trying to rescue me from those humans, and he looked like he hadn't had any action in a while so. Yeah.”

Knock Out couldn't believe it. “ _You_? Warmed the ice queen's _berth_?”

Breakdown shrugged and gave Knock Out a small smile. “Eh, he's as good a lover as he is a fighter. Said the same thing about me, in fact.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “I might just be the best he'd ever had.”

“ _Do tell_.” Knock Out purred, leaning in. Damn his personal theories, _this_ was far more interesting.

“In a bit, Knock Out.” Breakdown squinted his good optic in concentration. “Starscream wants another go. I'm trying to check if I've got a few free cycles.”

Knock Out quirked an optic ridge. “ 'A few'?”

“Seems he wants to introduce me to something called ' _Vosnian Kama_ '. Not sure what it's supposed to be but he said we can't do it in just one session. I dunno yet if I'm totally up for it, but hey, as long it makes him nice and happy, right?”


	18. Initiation: Steeljaw/Kickback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for shits-and-giggles, the primary driving force behind most of the writings in this omnibus of obscenity. Might continue this if anyone besides me is interested.

Steeljaw hissed; Kickback paused. He glanced up at the wolf-con with large, anxious optics.

“Di—did I do somethin' wrong?” He stammered. 

The wolf-con inhaled deeply before speaking, his words slightly muffled by his grit dentae. “No, Kickback. Not at all. I'm simply—“ He let out a long, shuddering breath. A slag-eating grin formed on his face. It made Kickback's spark throb. “—simply and genuinely impressed at your...unorthodox but deeply appreciated set of skills.” He finished, reaching down to stroke one of Kickback's antennae between his digits.

Kickback shuddered. “Much appreciated, boss.” He wheezed out, luminescent blush creeping on his pale faceplate.

Steeljaw chuckled darkly and pulled back to rest the full weight of his bulky frame against the boulder. “Please, call me 'Steeljaw'. Until there's more of us, I consider you and I as partners. I implore you to do the same.”

“Much appreciated, Steeljaw.” Kickback corrected himself. After a nervous sideways glance, he spoke up once more, in a softer voice this time. “So. Should I...?” He trailed off as he squeezed the base of Steeljaw's fully erect spike.

“By all means.”

Kickback began to dip his helm down then stopped. “So does this mean I'm part of the team?” He asked suddenly, looking up at Steeljaw once more.

“Circumstances being what they are,” Steeljaw said, irritation clear in his expression and vocals. “You _are_ my team. So why don't you be a team player and finish what you've started? For both our sakes.”

“You got it, bo—Steeljaw!” Kickback nodded and immediately wrapped his lip-components around the head, glossa enthusiastically lapping up the pearl of transfluid.


	19. We Three: Slipstream/Fixit/Jetstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **VladimirVampier said:**  
>  I really like Fixit, maybe you can do some more with him? Maybe with the other minicons, or Grimlock or Bee?
> 
> * * *
> 
> You had me at “the other minicons”.

Slipstream spoke first. “Fixit,” He began with a whisper. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?” His voice, though soft, was heavy with concern—concern for none other than the orange Minicon sandwiched between himself and Jetstorm. It reflected his expression perfectly, his and Jetstorm's, both full of worry and—Fixit noted with amusement tickling his spark—love. An odd combination of emotions, for certain; but they were there and they were laid bare before the object of their desire.

Fixit smiled and nodded. “Yes. Absolutely.” He replied as he pushed his back against the front of Slipstream's chassis. “Never before have I been more certain.” He added hastily.

Jetstorm spoke next. “Fixit,” He began with a slight frown. “Have you ever done this before?” He asked as his servos glided anxiously over the hidden seams of Fixit's interface array. There they remained; touching but not quite unclasping the array cover, eager to explore the warmth radiating underneath yet respectful of the invisible boundaries.

Fixit shook his helm. “Never.” He admitted without an ounce of shame. “This is completely new to me. Hence my excitement. But if Lieutenant Bumblebee and Windblade's stories are to be believed, then interface is going to be a truly wonderful experience. Hopefully, for all of us.” At the last statement, his voice dropped and his optics lit up with need. In the dark of the night and in this isolated corner of the junkyard, its effects awed both Jetstorm and Slipstream.

The red-and-black Minicons exchanged a quick look. An unreadable expression. 

Fixit held his breath.

It was Jetstorm's turn to speak first. “If you yourself are certain about this...”

“...and you've no traces of doubt in your processor nor spark...” continued Slipstream.

“...then we can begin.” Jetstorm said as his interface panel slid back to reveal his spike, with Slipstream following suit.

“Sexce—excellent.” Fixit muttered, allowing his own panel to retract. With no legs nor pedes to speak of, Fixit's interface array was an oddity among the three Minicons. Located snugly on his under chassis, it contained a valve-like cluster of nodes, cables and mesh, and nothing more. Having exhaustively studied the finer points of Cybertronian anatomy, Fixit often times regarded his own framework with a sliver of contempt. Truly, he was an anomaly inside and out. But that, the red-and-black Minicons had said to him when he briefly and bitterly mentioned it once, just made him even more amazing in their optics. Even now, Jetstorm and Slipstream—now hovering in front of Fixit—gazed at it with intense awe. 

“Shall we begin then?” Fixit queried after a moment.

“Absolutely, Fixit.” Jetstorm said. “Which one of us should go first?”

“Um,” Fixit giggled nervously. “Truthfully, I was...hoping you...would both...well, you know...”

“At...the same time?” Slipstream gaped.

Fixit laughed harder, louder and shrugged. His faceplate was as warm as his interface array. “This _is_ going to be my first time. Let's make it something special.”


	20. Take a Picture: Soundwave/Starscream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Preggy!Scream is my jam.

“Staring at him isn't going to make him come out faster.”

A barely noticeable tilt-of-the-helm was all the answer Soundwave gave. He returned to intently scrutinizing the gravid belly in front of him. The blank helm loomed closer. Starscream fidgeted on the berth, discomfort growing under the silent mech's imperceptible gaze. Truthfully, the Seeker was amazed that his unease had just now materialized. The better part of a solar cycle had been spent in Soundwave's personal quarters, on top of his berth and beneath his fixed stare.

Thin, spider-like claws edged towards Starscream's swollen mid-section. Then stopped. Soundwave quickly retracted his digits, Starscream clenched his.

Was Soundwave disgusted? He shouldn't be, Starscream thought bitterly, this was his doing after all. Sure, it was Starscream who jokingly initiated the relationship under a dare from Knock Out. Sure, it was Starscream who, on a whim, decided to see how far the third-in-command was willing to go. And yes, it _was_ Starscream who shamelessly begged Soundwave to—for lack of a better term—finish inside of the Seeker. But still. Soundwave had no room nor right to be disgusted.

Was Soundwave enthralled? If he was, Starscream mused, he was exceptional at concealing it. When Starscream broke the news of his carrying, Soundwave merely cocked his helm to the side before trudging down the halls. Starscream assumed that Soundwave didn't care. That didn't surprise him. Soundwave proved him wrong when he showed up a day after with a plethora of disks extensively covering the subject matter—including but not limited to a list of potential sparkling names. _That_ surprised him.

Or was Soundwave excited at the prospect at adding more numbers to their ranks? Lord Megatron certainly was. Starscream had yet to decide his personal feelings on that. Decepticon coding remained wholly neutral on that idea, while his carrier protocols were screeching bloody murder. Perhaps once Howlback—or Sunstorm, they hadn't come to an agreement yet—was born, Starscream would decide.

For now, all he was sure of was that the quiet was killing him.

Starscream suddenly cleared his throat. “You know, Soundwave.” He said in attempt to dispel the suffocating lull of silence. “At this point, I _would_ say 'take a picture, it'll last longer' with the same amount of venom I'd usually save for Meg—for the Autobots. But knowing you...” He warily eyed Soundwave for a reaction, any reaction. He perceived nor received none and continued. “...you've probably done that already.”

Soundwave looked up. Starscream found himself staring at a massive collection of obscene pictures scrolling across Soundwave's helm. Featured in every single one of those bawdy images was Starscream: heavily pregnant and in the throes of pleasure. 

“Of course.” The Seeker deadpanned.

Another picture of pregnant Starscream flashed across the glass. This time, it was moving and showed the lithe flyer bouncing up a dildo painted to look like Optimus Prime's spike.

Starscream frowned. “You're prepared, at least. I supposed you could be a promising sire to little Sunstorm.”

“ 'Howlback'.” Came his own furious, distorted voice from Soundwave's frame.

Starscream rolled his optics. “Whatever.”


	21. Who's Your Daddy: Optimus Prime/Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bellass said**  
>  Hello! My friend showed me that picture of Sideswipe riding Optimus' spike. Plus those stories of those two are just.....*drolls* Can you pleas write something similar? If you don't wanna do it i don't mind.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Considering I've already written and drawn for this pair, I sure as Sally don't mind making more fics for it.
> 
> Caveat emptor: a wee bit of non-consensual voyeurism in the end.

Sideswipe squeaked. He couldn't help it. With Optimus carrying him and holding his thighs apart, with those huge servos digging into the curves of his quivering protoflesh, with the older mech's large spike buried halfway in his too-hot, too-tiny valve, Sideswipe couldn't help himself. He couldn't help letting that undignified squeak escape his intake, nor could he stave off the blush that made his faceplate glow.

Shame burned at his spark's core.

At least no one else was here to see him, see them. Everyone else was exploring the uninhabited island they had considered turning into their secondary base of operations. Only he and Optimus remained at their camp. Optimus stayed behind to “recover”; Sideswipe stayed with the Prime to “offer aid”. The others accepted their excuses without question, and they were free to frag with wild abandon.

As much “wild abandon” as the younger mech could take, at least.

“Suh—sorry.” Sideswipe murmured. He hoped Optimus couldn't see him blushing; he didn't need another reason to feel mortified. “That was so uncool.” He hastily added in a shaky breath.

“There is no need to apologize, Sideswipe.” Came the low-pitched voice.

Sideswipe's back was against the front of Optimus' chassis—the chassis that rumbled soothingly with every word the Prime uttered. It felt amazing and reassuring, and Sideswipe enjoyed it immensely. “You're too nice, Po—Optimus.” He replied, being careful not to let his voice crack under the pleasure racing through his systems.

Optimus laughed then kissed the back of Sideswipe's helm. Those energon-tinted cheeks only bloomed brighter. Optimus laughed again then nuzzled other mech's audial. “Not at all. I am merely being a conscientious lover.” He whispered into the audio receptor, vocals heavy and full of promise.

Sideswipe shivered, and not just from the sound of Optimus' voice.

 _Lover_.

That's what he was. That's what they were. Right? Only lovers did the things they did. 

_Lovers_.

Sideswipe repeated the word in his processor. It sounded wonderful. Never mind if he was too young to be mulling over the terrifying and tumultuous world of romance. Never mind if Optimus was old enough to be his great-grand-sire. Never mind if their personalities were vastly different. Never mind what the others might say if they ever found out. He was getting wetter just thinking about him and Optimus being _lovers_.

“Would you like me to continue, Sideswipe?” Optimus asked him shifting his position ever so slightly.

Sideswipe bit back another squeak. The huge spike bottoming out his valve brushed against several highly sensitive nodes. Inner mesh lining was stretched to the limit. Moist valve walls strained to accommodate the massive girth. Sideswipe felt lubricant and miniscule rivulets of energon trickle out his valve and onto the length of Optimus' spike. The sensations combined briefly robbed Sideswipe of his ability to speak. All he could focus on and think about was the pleasure and pain that burned in his interface array then spread like wildfire through his energon lines. Limbs feeling weak, frame shaking and collecting condensation, desire roiled through his entire being. Overload was close, so very close. It was too much.

“Sideswipe?”

The younger mech threw his helm back and howled. “Yes! Pops, please! Fuck me, Pops!” He looked up at Optimus with wide, begging optics. His digits scrambled downwards and spread his valve lips as far as they could go, allowing him to sink down further on the other's spike. “Please, Optimus! Fill me up! Just fuck me, please!”

Optimus gave a curt nod. And then he complied.

Sideswipe's howling morphed into screaming.

* * *

Windblade licked her lip-components. “Mmm.” She moaned, savoring the sight of Optimus pounding Sideswipe's sweet little valve. “That's a good boy, Sideswipe. Windblade likes.” She pushed aside a few leaves to get a better view of Optimus' and Sideswipe's coupling.

To her great delight, Sideswipe began to rub his anterior node as Optimus increased the pace of his thrusting. Cum seeped out from thick valve lips before dribbling down the spike that was practically cleaving it in half. The younger mech's belly was slowly but surely growing, filling up with cum and doing its best to keep it all in. An action, Windblade remembered, that better ensured conception between two bots. She could feel her own interface array aching between her thighs.

Optimus a sire, Sideswipe a carrier. Now that was a fantasy she could get behind.

“Calling Optimus 'Pops', huh?” Windblade chuckled as her protective array paneling retracted. Lubricant gushed out, splattering on the forest floor. “Well who's your daddy now, Sideswipe? Who's your daddy?”


	22. Wild Things: Shattered Glass!Grimlock/Bumblebee

Bumblebee returned his pistol to its holster. Normally he would've accomplished this in a single, smooth movement; countless millenia of use had turned the weapon into an extension of his own being. Not this time—this time, freshly spilled energon had made the pistol too slippery to grip properly. The flair of his action was severely diluted, and Bumblebee would've taken out his frustration on the nearest living creature. Fortunately for him, the nearest living creature—the _thing_ that had the gall to bleed all over him—was already a crumpled gray husk. The sight of the smoking hole between the lifeless optics warmed his spark.

An animal-con resembling an Earthen bird. She had heavier ball bearings than most and tried to put up a fight. Tried and failed. Bumblebee couldn't be bothered to remember her name. All he could remember of her was that she talked and bled too much for his liking. Not that it mattered anymore. She was just another number to add to his list.

The bronze-and-black mech spat on the body. “One 'Con down.” 

“A good one hundred more to go.” His partner said, approaching him. Bumblebee wished he hadn't; the further away he was from his “partner” the better. The larger mech had on a mirthful smirk and, to Bumblebee's annoyance, was clapping his servos—slowly, almost sarcastically. 

“Astounding display of force, my sweet. Though you were considerably light on the finesse, you have none to blame but this depressingly uncooperative specimen.” Grimlock made a dramatic gesture to the deceased bot on the ground. “Had she elected to meet her demise with a bit more dignity, then maybe you wouldn't be this perplexing conundrum glowering before me.”

“You wanna be the next thing I shoot?” Bumblebee said icily. His digits hovered just above his holster, ready to draw out the pistol at a moment's notice. “And 'perplexing conundrum'? The scrud is that supposed to mean?”

“Is not obvious, my tasty little morsel?” Grimlock bared more of his sharpened dentae. “As a mech of good standing, I absolutely abhor getting my servos unnecessarily dirty. The very thought of getting so much as a smidge of easily avoidable grime upon my chassis simply irks me. An immaculate finish and impeccable manners maketh the mech after all.”

Bumblebee said nothing. Slowly, he reached for his pistol.

Grimlock was on him in a sparkbeat.

Bumblebee vented sharply as his back was slammed against the rough surface of a large boulder. He heard and felt his doorwings crumble upon impact. An animalistic howl erupted from his intake. The sound echoed through the forest, sending many wary Earthen wildlife scampering. It wasn't pain that gave his screams their unnerving edge. It was anger and humiliation, all concentrated on the Dinobot leering before him.

“And yet here you are.” Grimlock purred at the smaller mech trapped between the boulder and his bulky frame. “Proudly embodying all I stand against.” He brought his lip-components closer to Bumblebee's audials. “Filth and crassness.” 

Bumblebee snarled and gnashed his dentae. He cursed in shouts and in whispers. He struggled uselessly against the huge purple servo pinning his arms above his helm. To no avail.

As good a fighter as he was, he couldn't compare to the raw power Grimlock was using to hold him down. He never could. Perhaps that was why Optimus Prime forced them into this unholy, unwanted partnership. Who else, Bumblebee realized, could keep him in line? He laughed bitterly. The laughter then settled into sullen silence.

Grimlock watched it all unfold with nothing more than a smile. As Bumblebee's outrage died down, he allowed himself a hearty laugh before he continued to speak. Casually, nonchalantly, as though there wasn't a damaged, energon-covered mech radiating fury underneath his claws. “You should disgust me, and truthfully, you do. You disgust me. You appall me. But you also fascinate me. You captivate me. You are the only mech I know of who could make this—” He wiped away droplets of energon from a pale cheek. “—appear breathtaking.”

Bumblebee tipped his helm upwards. The sour expression on his faceplate transformed into something else entirely. 

“Simply put, Bumblebee,” Grimlock's faceplate hovered close to Bumblebee's, hot breath and EM fields mingling. “You bring out the wild thing in me.”

Bumblebee snorted, the creeping melancholia and numbing pain forgotten. “Well ain't that ironic? _You're_ the animal-con here, and _I'm_ the wild one between us.”

“It adds to your intrigue.” Grimlock told him, voice dripping charm.

The intentions were not lost on Bumblebee. “Did Prime tell you to tell me that?”

Grimlock appeared taken aback. “Kaon's spires, _no_.” He scowled. “That maniac has no hold on me. The words I speak are none but my own, as are the desires I capitulate to. I am well aware that you may not think much of me, but I cannot say the same of you, you ravishing creature.”

The smaller mech relaxed a little. “Fucking poetry. Not bad, Grim.” He said, looking and sounding impressed. “For foreplay, I guess.” He added while the moment was still right.

“Oh, Bumblebee, darling,” Grimlock cooed and ground his pelvic plating against the other's, minute sparks flaring upon contact. “I know how you like it.”

“Unfortunately...” Was the last word Bumblebee managed to grind out. Grimlock stopped him from speaking any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An experiment. I wanted to get a feel for these two before working on more. Them in this 'verse has a lot of potential, I think. If the audience(?) demands it, I may write more of this pairing and others within the same 'verse. Shattered Glass!Drift/Fracture and/or Shattered Glass!Steeljaw/Thunderhoof, anyone?


	23. Freddy or Jason: Grimlock/Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **AutoBotBumblebee1127 said:**  
>  Think we could get bumblebee riding grimlocks spike somewhere in the junkyard while sideswipe and strongarm are talking nearby?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sure, why not.

Their patrol through the scrapyard should have ended an hour ago. But Sideswipe, being Sideswipe, felt it necessary to extend his and Strongarm's midday round. If only to display his knowledge of human pop culture to an otherwise unimpressed Strongarm.

Sideswipe sniffed indignantly. “Oh, of _course_ you'd say _that_ , Strongarm.” He said, making his contempt as blatant as possible. “That's what bots with no taste whatsoever would say. So it's in par for _you_.” The sneer he wore oozed smugness. A fist right between the optics would fix it, Strongarm thought.

She felt her dominant servo's digits curling together as that idea grew more enticing by the nanosecond. But, she decided after more rational thinking, that a verbal lashing would be more satisfying to dole out. “While I respect your right to your own opinion, Sideswipe,” Strongarm's voice was calm. The expression on her face was anything but. “Your opinion is _awful_ and _wrong_. As _awful_ and _wrong_ as _you_.”

The red mech stopped walking to turn on his pedes. “Ha!” Sideswipe jabbed Strongarm's chassis with an accusatory digit. “Says the bot who thinks that Freddy could take on Jason in a fair fight!” He sneered, leering close to her impassive faceplate. “Only bots with a few cogs missing could think that that stupid scrawny weirdo has a chance against _the_ Jason! Thank you for proving my point.”

Strongarm's digits curled tighter until they shook. Her lip-components tightened into a thin line. The urge to punch Sideswipe was becoming impossible to ignore.

Blessedly, the walls of Earthen detritus surrounding them muffled their argument.

 

* * *

 

Not too far way, hidden behind piles upon piles of junk, Grimlock and Bumblebee listened to the two younger bots argue. They heard the bickering escalate into an all-out screaming match, neither side willing to give in to the other. The fury and the venom was tangible in their words. Sideswipe and Strongarm's shockingly colorful vocabularies were pored through with impunity. Under normal circumstances, Bumblebee and Grimlock would intervene before their squabbling got even worse.

But with Bumblebee riding Grimlock's spike, and Grimlock rolling his hips against Bumblebee's interface array, and their pelvic plating scraping and clanging against each other, these were not normal circumstances. Instead of keeping the peace in the junkyard, they were just trying to keep quiet.

Somehow, Grimlock managed to make himself heard in spite of the audial-popping din. “ 'Bee. I think I'm close. I can feel it comin'.”

Bumblebee looked down at Grimlock pleadingly. “Hold it in, Grim.” He whispered through the digits covering his intake.

Grimlock whined, vents sputtering. “I—I don't think I can!” The Dinobot wheezed and tightened his grip on Bumblebee's hips. Grimlock jerked his own hips upwards. Repeatedly. A devastating, all-consuming overload was close and he couldn't—or didn't want to—hold back any longer.

Bumblebee winced and squirmed. He sunk down even further on the huge spike.

“Grim!” Bumblebee sobbed, both from the worry about being discovered and from the heat running wildly through his circuits. His own overload was forthcoming.

And it was going to be big.

Beneath him, Grimlock moaned. Loudly.

Blessedly, Strongarm and Sideswipe were too busy yelling at each other to notice or care.

 

* * *

 

“So this is where you two have been!” Windblade approached them with a scowl affixed on her faceplate. “Drift and I have been looking everywhere for you! We thought the 'Cons might've gotten you! Again.”

“Oh, finally, a bot with _sense_. Windblade,” Sideswipe glanced at the red femme and then at Strongarm. The first gaze, full of adoration; the second gaze, full of scorn. “Do you think you could share your much-needed opinion and tell Strongarm here how _wrong_ she is in thinking Freddy could kick Jason's ass?”

“He has experience and innate viciousness on his side!” Strongarm insisted.

“How is that supposed to help him against an immortal giant like Jason?” Sideswipe snapped defensively.

“Freddy could easily overcome that obstacle with his creativity!”

“Creativity ain't slag against eternal life!”

Windblade was ignored as the two younger bots returned to their vitriol-filled debate. Not that she minded much. “Right.” Windblade muttered, sighing in exasperation. “I'm just glad to know to you two are still...okay. I'll...leave you alone until you can sort this out between yourselves.” She began walking away as quietly as her pedes could. “I'll be back later.”

She craned her helm backwards. Not to see if Strongarm and Sideswipe's bickering had turned into a full-on physical altercation. But because she could've sworn that, at that very moment, she heard a sound that had become quite common during their nights on this planet.

Two mechs. One synchronized overload.

Windblade flashed a small smile then continued her walk.


	24. Recharge a Little: Shattered Glass!Steeljaw/Thunderhoof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more _Shattered Glass_ -'verse nonsense. This time, with a bit more plot and a bit more background. Still trying to figure out their personalities before I write them in more steamy situations.

“Steely, yous should rest.” Came the request. Coming from Thunderhoof, it sounded more like an order. Which, as far as Steeljaw was concerned, it was. An order that he, as team leader, was going to brush aside.

“No.” Came the curt reply.

“I said, 'yous should rest'.” Came the low-sounding rumble that was Thunderhoof growing irritated.

“And I said 'no'.” Came the retort that was Steeljaw firmly asserting his authority over his companion. He was none to fond of it though. In Steeljaw's optics, the Decepticons were all of equal stature; who or what they were on Cybertron was completely moot on this strange new planet. Off the battlefield, Steeljaw was just another member of a Decepticon crew looking for a new home. The wolf-con had made this very clear on numerous occasions.

Which is why Thunderhoof had no qualms in scooping the wolf-con into his arms and carrying him, bridal style, onto their berth. Steeljaw may have been gifted with cunning, but Thunderhoof had raw power and single-mindedness in his arsenal. He didn't just see a hunched-over, thoroughly exhausted mech working tirelessly in uniting the scattered Decepticons of Earth. He saw his wonderful, infuriating, amazing lover in desperate need of recharge. And Thunderhoof was going to make sure that Steeljaw got what he so richly deserved. The shrieking protests and the emotional imploring fell on tactically deaf audials.

“Thunderhoof, no! Let me return to my work! I need to pen that proposal for Hammerstrike before tomorrow evening!” Steeljaw wailed, ineffectually flailing his limbs against the much larger mech. His digits were reaching for the datapad and makeshift work desk in the far corner of his and Thunderhoof's private quarters. “Our alliance with him depends on it!”

“That proposal ain't gonna be much good if yer dead.” Thunderhoof responded coolly, bearing the brunt of Steeljaw's efforts with nothing more than a bemused grin.

“As your team leader, I command you to release me and allow me to resume my work!” Steeljaw persisted.

“Sorry kid, there ain't no Autobots around here, so yous ain't no 'team leader'. In here, it's age before beauty.” Thunderhoof said as he lovingly pinched Steeljaw's snout between his digits. “And I'm the oldest living thing in this in quadrant of the galaxy. Recharge a little and maybe you'll get to be as old as me someday.”

Steeljaw let out what could have only been a snort as he was dropped onto the berth. “Hilarious. So were you a philanthropist _and_ a comedian back on Cybertron?” The white-and-silver wolf-con asked dryly.

“Nah.” Thunderhoof lay down beside Steeljaw, placing his frame as close to the other as possible. He smiled even wider as he kissed the wolf-con's helm. “I just love you too much.”

“You've a funny way of showing it. Disrupting my work. Forcibly tearing me away from my desk. Possibly jeopardizing our relations with others of our kind...” Steeljaw groused, even as Thunderhoof rained gentle pecks on his helm.

“You work too much, Steely.”

“I'm not working enough.” Steeljaw countered.

“You did more for the 'Cons than anyone else I know.” Thunderhoof replied, pale-blue optics dimming as he remembered. 

The young, upstart senator who was determined to guarantee equal rights for animal-cons across the entire universe. The wealthy, disenchanted elite trapped in a loveless bond with a serial philanderer. The gala that allowed the two vastly different figures to meet and begin a joint campaign for equality and a whirlwind romance. The discovery that incarcerated the senator and the elite in separate prisons in different cities. The promise that they would find each other again when the time was right. Thunderhoof remembered it all. 

“Why do yous think I supported yous when no one else did? I even went to prison for yous, kid.” He said, pride evident in his tone.

“Because I didn't do enough. Just look at us—”

“Steely.” Thunderhoof's voice was stern. “Enough.” He pulled Steeljaw's body flush against his own. “I didn't bring yous to bed so yous could beat yourself up.”

Steeljaw draped a single arm over Thunderhoof's broad shoulder. “No,” He murmured as he nuzzled into the crook of the other mech's neck. “You brought me here to rest.” He sounded small, almost helpless.

It very nearly broke Thunderhoof's spark. Steeljaw was much, much younger than he was, but he had endured more—more hardships, more loss, more chaos. Steeljaw soldiered on, a little worse for wear but more determined every time. It— _he_ never ceased to amaze Thunderhoof. “So go do that, whydoncha?” The elk-con said softly.

“Okay.” He heard Steeljaw say. “Okay.”

Thunderhoof placed one final kiss on Steeljaw's helm. “Okay.”


	25. Relax a Little: Shattered Glass!Grimlock/Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a terribly self-indulgent loon. 
> 
> In this interpretation, Grimlock is a fussy bare-knuckles brawler with a penchant for waxing poetic; Bumblebee is a trigger-happy boor who can take as much pain as he can dish out. Somehow, they make it work.
> 
> Oh, and Drift's here too. Giving him Fracture's personality (rough, gruff and dishonorable) would've been too easy, so I went for a different approach.

Drift took one long puff of his cy-gar. Tendrils of dark smoke wafted out of the corners of his mouth. He sighed despondently then spoke to the mech standing before him. “Dude, that was so not cool.” His raspy vocals cracked slightly at the last word, strained under the emotions that made him shutter his optics and shake his helm to and fro. “Not cool at all.” He repeated.

To the unaware, Drift simply sounded forlorn. His black-and-bronze cohort had, after all, just cost them an easy bounty. Yet he, by all appearances, seemed to take the unfortunate news in stride. But Bumblebee wasn't a fool. He was sharper than he looked, much sharper.

Disappointment. Regret. And anger. He heard it all in Drift's voic. Saw it in the subtle movements of his frame. Caught the twitch of Drift's lip-components attempting to suppress a snarl.

And Bumblebee found himself not caring at all.

His gaze hardened. “ 'Dude', this, slag-cruncher.” He grumbled as he made an obscene gesture with his digits. “You didn't tell us that we had to bring her back,” He motioned to the deceased 'Con in Grimlock's arms. “alive.”

Drift regarded him with a mournful expression. “Dude, come on. What part of 'bring back Filch in one piece' didn't you get? She's a 'Con, but she's a _rich_ 'Con. At least her 'rents are.”

“ ' _One piece_ ' is different from ' _alive_ '.”

“Dude, it's, like, heavily implied, okay? Your listening comprehension sucks, okay?” Drift snapped, voice rising in pitch as his temper began to get the better of him.

“Just like you suck at being team leader. Okay?” Bumblebee said mockingly as he closed the distance between them.

“ _Oh-kay_ ,” Grimlock inserted himself between the two bots. “That's quite enough of that you two. What has been done has been done. Evidently, it has been a long and hard day for all involved in this delightful and hopefully amicable conversation. Might I suggest we all retire to our quarters so that the emotions threatening to spill over may simmer down, hmm?” He glanced at Drift and then at Bumblebee, wide smile plastered on his faceplate. “Come now, we're all civilized bots, aren't we? I suggest we act like it.” 

The tense silence that followed hung over them thickly. For a while, the only sound heard throughout the abandoned scrapyard was the groans of settling junk. None of the mechs spoke nor moved, not even when a charred piece of Filch broke off her body and fell to the ground with an unceremonious thud. It was Drift who finally broke the silence with a mirthful laugh. “Big G's got a point. No point in cryin' over spilled energex. And 'sides, why am I wastin' gas on _you_?” He plucked the cy-gar out of his mouth and nonchalantly flicked it at Bumblebee's forehead.

Drift allowed himself another laugh at Bumblebee's expense. Bumblebee allowed himself to forego his self-restraint.

* * *

“Do relax a little, Bumblebee.” Grimlock said chidingly. “If you continue squirming like this I may just—oops, there we go.” He quickly covered his audials as Bumblebee let out a high-pitched scream.

“You glitch, that _hurt_!” Bumblebee shrieked, punching the welding gun out of Grimlock's servos. He raised his arm to throw another punch but stopped, suddenly doubling over in pain. Looking down, he saw energon seeping out of the gauze pressed against his abdomen. A stream of curses burst out of his wide-open intake.

Grimlock looked at him pityingly then retrieved the welding gun from the ground. “I _told_ you so. You really should pay more attention to me, Bumblebee. I genuinely _do_ care about you, you know.”

“Right.” Bumblebee grunted dismissively. “Course you do.”

“Would Strongarm or Sideswipe do this for you?” Grimlock asked, gesturing for Bumblebee to lay back and expose his damaged mid-section.

Bumblebee complied, though not without getting in a few more caustic remarks. “Maybe if they were fuckin' me, yeah.” The beginnings of a laugh died down into a hiss as Grimlock gingerly wiped away the energon from his open wound.

“I would like to see them try.” Grimlock said simply.

“Hmm. Never pegged you to be so— _aahn_...” Bumblebee winced and shuddered. He felt Grimlock press down on the torn protoflesh, tightly pinching between thick digits. He was, to his surprise and horror, actually _enjoying_ this. 

The waves of pain that peaked and ebbed in a disjointed pattern. The scent of new energon coating seared protoflesh. Grimlock bent over him and tending to his injuries. Like a concerned lover.

Bumblebee liked hurting others and, on occasion, be hurt himself. He relished the thrill that came with the pain, craved and actively sought it. Embraced it openly when he gave it or was given it. He never vocalized it—he saw no point in doing so—but Grimlock had no trouble figuring it out. The Dinobot had no qualms about enabling that desire either.

Damn it all, was he starting to... _reciprocate_?

“ 'So'?” Grimlock queried as he flicked the welding gun to life.

“ _possessive_.” Bumblebee finally gasped out, his body suddenly going stiff under the Dinobot's touch.

“Only when it comes to you, darling.” Grimlock told him gently. “Only when it comes to you.”

Bumblebee flashed a wry smirk. “Ain't you sweet?”

“Only when it comes to you. And only now.” Grimlock brought the flame closer to the wound. He looked at his companion. The glint of hunger in his optics shone brightly. “After this...”

Bumblebee licked his lip-components in anticipation. “I. Can't. Wait.”


	26. A Crack in the Glass: Shattered Glass!Drift/Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because _Fractured Glass_ was too easy. Dipping my toes into darker fare, starting with this. Also, I do believe I've worked out most of the _Shattered Glass_ fee-fees out of my system, so, hopefully, we can return to our not-so-regularly scheduled program.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _**Caveat Emptor** : Non-consensual elements. Non-explicit, but they're there._

_Move, damn you, move._

_Don't cry. Don't scream._

_It's just a broken pede. You can fix that at the ship. That and the vocalizer. Later. At the ship._

_You've been through worse. This is nothing. Far worse. This is nothing._

_Move, damn you._

_Mo—what is this? Thi—this is ma—mud, right? That's what it's called?_

_Oh, slag._

_I—I'm sinking._

_Slagslagslag_

_Need to get out of here. Need to find Airazor and Divebomb. Need to fix this. Need to move._

_Move._

_“Aw, Fracky-boo, where ya goin'?”_

_Oh no._

* * *

Fracture studied the data laid out before him. What he was seeing intrigued him greatly. “Earth, huh?” He said the planet's name aloud. It was a nice, neat little name; sounded good when spoken. And, if the legends of old were to be believed, contained far more than simple organic life. Ancient secrets. Hidden treasures. Grand adventures waiting for the worthy. And, of course, bounties galore. Fracture could feel the excitement swelling up in his spark.

At either side of him, his Minicon companions affirmed the data they'd collected. “Yes, master!” Airazor quipped, waving a delicate servo to the graphs and bits of information hovering around the photograph of Earth. “The last known coordinates of the _Alchemor_ point to its most recent location being somewhere within this solar system; specifically, to none other than Earth.”

“Ooh, how thrilling!” Divebomb happily clapped his servos.

“Tell me about it.” Fracture grinned as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Of all the planets in all the galaxies in all the universe, it just had to crash into that one. Incredible.”

“It must be fate, Master! Just look at all those names!” Airazor opened a window containing an extensive list of all of the _Alchemor's_ prisoners.

Fracture turned his attention to the collection of names flitting across his vision. Every single one was attached to an infamous figure in the civil war tearing Cybertron apart. A disgraced senator caught in an affair with an equally maligned socialite. A disowned heiress who'd aligned herself with a terrorist group. A retired gladiator who'd been discovered selling Autobot secrets for exorbitant amounts of credits. Fracture knew of all of them.

All there in the dossier. All running amuck on Earth. All waiting to be recaptured.

“Set a course for Earth, boys.” Fracture instructed his Minicons. His inflection, his tone of voice, rang rich with glee. And with hope; the, blessedly, infectious sort. Airazor and Divebomb returned his smile with their own as they set about performing their duties around the ship. “It's time for us to move out of Kaon and into the good life.”

* * *

_Oh no._

_“Aw, dude, you ditchin' the party already? But you just got here.”_

_**Ohnonononononono** _

_“Come on. Stay a while.”_

_**Ohnononononononononono** _

_Got to move. Got to get out of here. Got to get away. Got to get away. Got to get away._

_Movemovemovemovemove_

* * *

“Dude, seriously, frag off! I was here first!” Drift snarled, looming over Fracture's smaller, lighter frame.

The Decepticon was not impressed. He met Drift's glare with one that burned much brighter. “All's fair, Drift. Didn't you tell me that back on Mustafar?” Fracture replied icily, stiffening his spinal strut. If the Autobot was hoping to intimidate him, then he was going to be in for a big surprise.

“ _Ooh_ , so not cool, dude!” Drift sputtered, his entire frame trembling with impotent rage. “I already got a buncha deadbolts to deal with, I so do _not_ need you too!”

Fracture rolled his optics and snorted. “Hey, Drift, if you're as good as you say you are, then I shouldn't be that much trouble, _right_?” He asked with the biggest, most slag-eating-est grin he could muster. The grin only grew wider as Drift swiftly descended into inelegant, unintelligible and rage-filled griping. This was too good to be true. Seeing his rival reduced to a sparkling throwing the mother of all temper tantrums was a sight Fracture had only dreamt of.

It was beautiful, truly beautiful.

If this was a dream, he hoped he'd never wake up.

* * *

_This is a bad nocturnal flux. Yes, that it. That's right._

_A nightmare._

_This isn't happening._

_It's not—_

_“Bummer, dude. You're a fraggin' mess. A bigger mess than me.”_

_Oh no_

_Oh, Drift_

_“See, what you did to me? Back there, dude? That wasn't very nice.”_

_Drift, no._

_“It's gonna cost me a_ lot _of credits to get this broken arm fixed.”_

_Drift, don't._

_“So. Yeah. Hope you don't mind if I, like, avenge myself a little on you, Fracky-boo.”_

_Drift, please._

_“C'mere, Fracky-boo.”_

* * *

“Does it matter who started it?” Fracture yelled, deflecting a punch from Drift.

The samurai's lip-components were stretched in a maniacal smile. “Nuh-uh, dude!” He cackled as he blocked a kick aimed for his helm. Reacting quickly, he grabbed Fracture's leg and flung the Decepticon against a tree. The sickening thud that followed sounded like music to his audials. “As long as I end it!”

Fracture staggered onto his pedes and wiped away energon from the corners of his intake. “Drift. Stop. This is—this is _stupid_. I didn't even mean to—”

“Dude, shut up!” Drift screamed, slamming his entire weight against Fracture. “Just shut up and—”

Fracture cut Drift off by stabbing him in the arm with the dagger concealed in his subspace. “What? Die?” He snarled. As Drift rolled off Fracture, screeching in pain and unholy fury, the Decepticon placed a well-aimed kick against the damage arm. Drift's screaming only grew louder. The din of Drift's yelling allowed Fracture the time needed to unsheathe his wrist blade and place it against the Autobot's throat. “Not today, Drift. Not today.” He rasped.

* * *

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_Oh Primus_

_Oh sweet Solus Prime_

_Oh Primus_

_“See? That wasn't so bad, was it, dude?”_

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_“Aw, dude. Are you_ crying _? So lame.”_

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_“Dude, seriously, quit it. That is, like, such a boner killer.”_

_Someone_

_Oh, Primus, someone_

_Anyone_

_Please help_

_Everything_

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_Hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts_

_“And we can't have that, can we, Fracky-boo? 'Sides. Jetstorm and Slipstream haven't had their turns yet.”_


End file.
